CHINESE 


NIGHTINGALE 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 


VACHEL 


LIBRARY 

UNIVfc*S!TY  OP 
CAtJPwRNiA 
CAM  DIC«O 


x 


THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO    •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •   SAN   FRANCISCO 

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THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


THE 

CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

VACHEL  LINDSAY 

v. 

AUTHOB  OF  "THE  CONGO,"  "GENERAL  WILLIAM  BOOTH  ENTERS 

INTO  HEAVEN,"  "ADVENTURES  WHILE  PREACHING 

THE  GOSPEL  OF  BEAUTY,"  ETC. 


Nefo  gorft 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1919 

AH  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1917, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  September,  1917. 


JCottooofi 

J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


THIS  BOOK  is  DEDICATED  TO 
SABA  TEASDALE,  POET 


The  thanks  of  the  author  is  extended  to  "  Poetry :  A  Magazine 
of  Verse,"  "The  Chicago  Herald,"  "The  Masses,"  "The  Red 
Cross  Magazine,"  "  The  Bookman,"  "  The  Seven  Arts," 
"The  Independent,"  "The  Forum,"  and  "Tuck's  Magazine" 
for  permission  to  reprint  many  of  the  verses  in  this  volume. 


Harriet  Monroe  awarded  the  Levinson  Prize  to  "  The 
Chinese  Nightingale,"  as  the  best  contribution  to 
"Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,"  for  the  year  1915. 


vil 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

FIRST  SECTION 

PAOB 

THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE 3 

SECOND  SECTION 

America  Watching  the  War,  August,  1914,  to  April,  1917 

WHERE  Is  THE  REAL  NON-RESISTANT? 17 

HERE'S  TO  THE  MICE! 19 

WHEN  BRYAN  SPEAKS 20 

To  JANE  ADDAMS  AT  THE  HAGUE 22  * 

I.   SPEAK  Now  FOR  PEACE             ......  22 

II.  TOLSTOI  Is  PLOWING  YET 22 

THE  TALE  OF  THE  TIGER  TREE 24 

THE  MERCIFUL  HAND 35 

THIRD  SECTION 

America  at  War  with  Germany,  Beginning  April,  1917 

OUR  MOTHER  POCAHONTAS 39 

CONCERNING  EMPERORS 43  • 

NIAGARA 44 

MARK  TWAIN  AND  JOAN  OF  ARC 47 

THE  BANKRUPT  PEACE  MAKER 48  ' 

"  THIS,  MY  SONG,  is  MADE  FOR  KERENSKY  "        .        .        .        .  51  • 

ix 


x  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

FOURTH  SECTION 

Tragedies,  Comedies  and  Dreams 

PAGE 

OUR  GUARDIAN  ANGELS  AND  THEIR  CHILDREN     .        .        .        .57 
EPITAPHS  FOR  Two  PLAYERS 60 

I.  EDWIN  BOOTH 60 

II.  JOHN  BTJNNT 62 

MAE  MARSH,  MOTION  PICTURE  ACTRESS 64 

Two  OLD  CROWS 66 

THE  DRUNKARD'S  FUNERAL 68 

THE  RAFT 71 

THE  GHOSTS  OF  THE  BUFFALOES 75 

THE  BRONCHO  THAT  WOULD  NOT  BE  BROKEN      .        .        .        .80 

THE  PRAIRIE  BATTLEMENTS 82 

THE  FLOWER  OF  MENDING 84 

ALONE  IN  THE  WIND,  ON  THE  PRAIRIE 86 

To  LADY  JANE 87 

How  I  WALKED  ALONE  IN  THE  JUNGLES  OF  HEAVEN  .        .        .89 

FIFTH  SECTION 

The  Poem  Games 

AN  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  POEM  GAMES 93 

THE  KING  OF  YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 98 

THE  POTATOES'  DANCE .  100 

THE  BOOKER  WASHINGTON  TRILOGY 

I.  SIMON  LEGREE 104 

II.  JOHN  BROWN    .........  108 

III.   KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  QUEEN  OF  SHEBA    .        .        .  112 

How  SAMSON  BORE  AWAY  THE  GATES  OF  GAZA  .        .        .        .124 


FIRST  SECTION 
THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE 


THE   CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE 

A  Song  in  Chinese  Tapestries 

"  How,  how,"  he  said.     "  Friend  Chang,"  I  said, 
"San  Francisco  sleeps  as  the  dead  — 
Ended  license,  lust  and  play  : 
Why  do  you  iron  the  night  away  ? 
Your  big  clock  speaks  with  a  deadly  sound, 
With  a  tick  and  a  wail  till  dawn  comes  round. 
While  the  monster  shadows  glower  and  creep, 
What  can  be  better  for  man  than  sleep?" 

"I  will  tell  you  a  secret,"  Chang  replied; 
"My  breast  with  vision  is  satisfied, 
And  I  see  green  trees  and  fluttering  wings, 
And  my  deathless  bird  from  Shanghai  sings." 
Then  he  lit  five  fire-crackers  in  a  pan. 
"Pop,  pop,"  said  the  fire-crackers,  "cra-cra-crack." 
He  lit  a  joss  stick  long  and  black. 
Then  the  proud  gray  joss  in  the  corner  stirred ; 
On  his  wrist  appeared  a  gray  small  bird, 
And  this  was  the  song  of  the  gray  small  bird : 

3 


4  THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE 

"Where  is  the  princess,  loved  forever, 

Who  made  Chang  first  of  the  kings  of  men  ?  " 

And  the  joss  in  the  corner  stirred  again ; 

And  the  carved  dog,  curled  in  his  arms,  awoke, 

Barked  forth  a  smoke-cloud  that  whirled  and  broke. 

It  piled  in  a  maze  round  the  ironing-place, 

And  there  on  the  snowy  table  wide 

Stood  a  Chinese  lady  of  high  degree, 

With  a  scornful,  witching,  tea-rose  face.  .  .  . 

Yet  she  put  away  all  form  and  pride, 

And  laid  her  glimmering  veil  aside 

With  a  childlike  smile  for  Chang  and  for  me. 

The  walls  fell  back,  night  was  aflower, 

The  table  gleamed  in  a  moonlit  bower, 

While  Chang,  with  a  countenance  carved  of  stone, 

Ironed  and  ironed,  all  alone. 

And  thus  she  sang  to  the  busy  man  Chang : 

"Have  you  forgotten.  .  .  . 

Deep  in  the  ages,  long,  long  ago, 

I  was  your  sweetheart,  there  on  the  sand  — 

Storm-worn  beach  of  the  Chinese  land  ? 

We  sold  our  grain  in  the  peacock  town 

Built  on  the  edge  of  the  sea-sands  brown  — 

Built  on  the  edge  of  the  sea-sands  brown.  .  .  . 


THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE  5 

"When  all  the  world  was  drinking  blood 

From  the  skulls  of  men  and  bulls 

And  all  the  world  had  swords  and  clubs  of  stone, 

We  drank  our  tea  in  China  beneath  the  sacred  spice-trees, 

And  heard  the  curled  waves  of  the  harbor  moan. 

And  this  gray  bird,  in  Love's  first  spring, 

With  a  bright-bronze  breast  and  a  bronze-brown  wing, 

Captured  the  world  with  his  carolling. 

Do  you  remember,  ages  after, 

At  last  the  world  we  were  born  to  own  ? 

You  were  the  heir  of  the  yellow  throne  — 

The  world  was  the  field  of  the  Chinese  man 

And  we  were  the  pride  of  the  Sons  of  Han  ? 

We  copied  deep  books  and  we  carved  in  jade, 

And  wove  blue  silks  in  the  mulberry  shade.  ..." 

"I  remember,  I  remember 
That  Spring  came  on  forever, 
That  Spring  came  on  forever," 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 

My  heart  was  filled  with  marvel  and  dream, 
Though  I  saw  the  western  street-lamps  gleam, 
Though  dawn  was  bringing  the  western  day, 
Though  Chang  was  a  laundry  man  ironing  away.  .  .  . 


6  THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE 

Mingled  there  with  the  streets  and  alleys, 
The  railroad-yard  and  the  clock-tower  bright, 
Demon  clouds  crossed  ancient  valleys ; 
Across  wide  lotus-ponds  of  light 
I  marked  a  giant  firefly's  flight. 

And  the  lady,  rosy-red, 

Flourished  her  fan,  her  shimmering  fan, 

Stretched  her  hand  toward  Chang,  and  said : 

"  Do  you  remember, 

Ages  after, 

Our  palace  of  heart-red  stone  ? 

Do  you  remember 

The  little  doll-faced  children 

With  their  lanterns  full  of  moon-fire, 

That  came  from  all  the  empire 

Honoring  the  throne  ?  — 

The  loveliest  fete  and  carnival 

Our  world  had  ever  known  ? 

The  sages  sat  about  us 

With  their  heads  bowed  in  their  beards, 

With  proper  meditation  on  the  sight. 

Confucius  was  not  born ; 

We  lived  in  those  great  days 

Confucius  later  said  were  lived  aright.  .  .  . 


THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE 

And  this  gray  bird,  on  that  day  of  spring, 

With  a  bright  bronze  breast,  and  a  bronze-brown  wing, 

Captured  the  world  with  his  carolling. 

Late  at  night  his  tune  was  spent. 

Peasants, 

Sages, 

Children, 

Homeward  went, 

And  then  the  bronze  bird  sang  for  you  and  me. 

We  walked  alone.     Our  hearts  were  high  and  free. 

I  had  a  silvery  name,  I  had  a  silvery  name, 

I  had  a  silvery  name  —  do  you  remember 

The  name  you  cried  beside  the  tumbling  sea?" 

Chang  turned  not  to  the  lady  slim  — 

He  bent  to  his  work,  ironing  away ; 

But  she  was  arch,  and  knowing  and  glowing, 

And  the  bird  on  his  shoulder  spoke  for  him. 

"Darling  .  .  .  darling  .  .  .  darling  .  .  .  darling  .  .  ." 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 

The  great  gray  joss  on  a  rustic  shelf, 
Rakish  and  shrewd,  with  his  collar  awry, 
Sang  impolitely,  as  though  by  himself, 


8  THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE 

Drowning  with  his  bellowing  the  nightingale's  cry : 

"Back  through  a  hundred,  hundred  years 

Hear  the  waves  as  they  climb  the  piers, 

Hear  the  howl  of  the  silver  seas, 

Hear  the  thunder. 

Hear  the  gongs  of  holy  China 

How  the  waves  and  tunes  combine 

In  a  rhythmic  clashing  wonder, 

Incantation  old  and  fine : 

'Dragons,  dragons,  Chinese  dragons, 
Red  fire-crackers,  and  green  fire-crackers, 
And  dragons,  dragons,  Chinese  dragons.'" 

Then  the  lady,  rosy-red, 

Turned  to  her  lover  Chang  and  said : 

"Dare  you  forget  that  turquoise  dawn 

When  we  stood  in  our  mist-hung  velvet  lawn, 

And  worked  a  spell  this  great  joss  taught 

Till  a  God  of  the  Dragons  was  charmed  and  caught  ? 

From  the  flag  high  over  our  palace  home 

He  flew  to  our  feet  in  rainbow-foam  — 

A  king  of  beauty  and  tempest  and  thunder 

Panting  to  tear  our  sorrows  asunder. 

A  dragon  of  fair  adventure  and  wonder. 

We  mounted  the  back  of  that  royal  slave 


THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE 

With  thoughts  of  desire  that  were  noble  and  grave. 

We  swam  down  the  shore  to  the  dragon-mountains, 

We  whirled  to  the  peaks  and  the  fiery  fountains. 

To  our  secret  ivory  house  we  were  bourne. 

We  looked  down  the  wonderful  wing-filled  regions 

Where  the  dragons  darted  in  glimmering  legions. 

Right  by  my  breast  the  nightingale  sang ; 

The  old  rhymes  rang  in  the  sunlit  mist 

That  we  this  hour  regain  — 

Song-fire  for  the  brain. 

When  my  hands  and  my  hair  and  my  feet  you  kissed, 

When  you  cried  for  your  heart's  new  pain, 

What  was  my  name  in  the  dragon-mist, 

In  the  rings  of  rainbowed  rain?" 

"Sorrow  and  love,  glory  and  love," 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 
"Sorrow  and  love,  glory  and  love," 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 

And  now  the  joss  broke  in  with  his  song : 
"  Dying  ember,  bird  of  Chang, 
Soul  of  Chang,  do  you  remember  ?  — 
Ere  you  returned  to  the  shining  harbor 
There  were  pirates  by  ten  thousand 


10  THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE 

Descended  on  the  town 

In  vessels  mountain-high  and  red  and  brown, 

Moon-ships  that  climbed  the  storms  and  cut  the  skies. 

On  their  prows  were  painted  terrible  bright  eyes. 

But  I  was  then  a  wizard  and  a  scholar  and  a  priest ; 

I  stood  upon  the  sand ; 

With  lifted  hand  I  looked  upon  them 

And  sunk  their  vessels  with  my  wizard  eyes, 

And  the  stately  lacquer-gate  made  safe  again. 

Deep,  deep  below  the  bay,  the  sea-weed  and  the  spray, 

Embalmed  in  amber  every  pirate  lies, 

Embalmed  in  amber  every  pirate  lies." 

Then  this  did  the  noble  lady  say : 

"Bird,  do  you  dream  of  our  home-coming  day 

When  you  flew  like  a  courier  on  before 

From  the  dragon-peak  to  our  palace-door, 

And  we  drove  the  steed  in  your  singing  path  — 

The  ramping  dragon  of  laughter  and  wrath  : 

And  found  our  city  all  aglow, 

And  knighted  this  joss  that  decked  it  so  ? 

There  were  golden  fishes  in  the  purple  river 

And  silver  fishes  and  rainbow  fishes. 

There  were  golden  junks  in  the  laughing  river, 

And  silver  junks  and  rainbow  junks  : 


THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE  11 

There  were  golden  lilies  by  the  bay  and  river, 

And  silver  lilies  and  tiger-lilies, 

And  tinkling  wind-bells  in  the  gardens  of  the  town 

By  the  black-lacquer  gate 

Where  walked  in  state 

The  kind  king  Chang 

And  his  sweet-heart  mate.  .  .  . 

With  his  flag-born  dragon 

And  his  crown  of  pearl  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  jade, 

And  his  nightingale  reigning  in  the  mulberry  shade, 

And  sailors  and  soldiers  on  the  sea-sands  brown, 

And  priests  who  bowed  them  down  to  your  song  — 

By  the  city  called  Han,  the  peacock  town, 

By  the  city  called  Han,  the  nightingale  town, 

The  nightingale  town." 

Then  sang  the  bird,  so  strangely  gay, 
Fluttering,  fluttering,  ghostly  and  gray, 
A  vague,  unravelling,  final  tune, 
Like  a  long  unwinding  silk  cocoon  ; 
Sang  as  though  for  the  soul  of  him 
Who  ironed  away  in  that  bower  dim  :  — 

"I  have  forgotten 

Your  dragons  great, 

Merry  and  mad  and  friendly  and  bold. 


12  THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE 

Dim  is  your  proud  lost  palace-gate. 

I  vaguely  know 

There  were  heroes  of  old, 

Troubles  more  than  the  heart  could  hold, 

There  were  wolves  in  the  woods 

Yet  lambs  in  the  fold, 

Nests  in  the  top  of  the  almond  tree.  .  .  . 

The  evergreen  tree  .  .  .  and  the  mulberry  tree 

Life  and  hurry  and  joy  forgotten, 

Years  on  years  I  but  half -remember  .  .  . 

Man  is  a  torch,  then  ashes  soon, 

May  and  June,  then  dead  December, 

Dead  December,  then  again  June. 

Who  shall  end  my  dream's  confusion  ? 

Life  is  a  loom,  weaving  illusion  .  .  . 

I  remember,  I  remember 

There  were  ghostly  veils  and  laces  .  .  . 

In  the  shadowy  bowery  places  .  .  . 

With  lovers'  ardent  faces 

Bending  to  one  another, 

Speaking  each  his  part. 

They  infinitely  echo 

In  the  red  cave  of  my  heart. 

'Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweetheart.' 

They  said  to  one  another. 


THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE  13 

They  spoke,  I  think,  of  perils  past. 
They  spoke,  I  think,  of  peace  at  last. 
One  thing  I  remember : 
Spring  came  on  forever, 
Spring  came  on  forever," 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 


SECOND   SECTION 

AMERICA  WATCHING  THE   WAR 

AUGUST,  1914  TO  APRIL,  1917 


15 


WHERE    IS   THE    REAL   NON-RESISTANT? 

(Matthew  V,  38-48.) 

Who  can  surrender  to  Christ,  dividing  his  best  with  the 

stranger, 
Giving  to  each  what  he  asks,  braving   the  uttermost 

danger 

All  for  the  enemy,  MAN  ?     Who  can  surrender  till  death 
His  words  and  his  works,  his  house  and  his  lands, 
His  eyes  and  his  heart  and  his  breath  ? 

Who   can   surrender   to   Christ?     Many   have  yearned 

toward  it  daily. 
Yet    they    surrender   to   passion,   wildly   or    grimly    or 

gaily ; 
Yet  they  surrender  to  pride,  counting  her  precious  and 

queenly ; 
Yet  they  surrender  to  knowledge,  preening  their  feathers 

serenely. 

Who  can  surrender  to  Christ?     Where  is   the  man  so 
transcendent, 

c  17 


18       WHERE  IS  THE  REAL  NON-RESISTANT? 

So  heated  with  love  of  his  kind,  so  filled  with  the  spirit 

resplendent 
That  all  of  the  hours  of  his  day  his  song  is  thrilling  and 

tender, 

And  all  of  his  thoughts  to  our  white  cause  of  peace 
Surrender,  surrender,  surrender? 


HERE'S  TO  THE  MICE  19 


HERE'S  TO  THE  MICE 

(Written  with  the  hope  that  the  socialists  might  yet 
dethrone  Kaiser  and  Czar.) 

Here's  to  the  mice  that  scare  the  lions, 

Creeping  into  their  cages. 

Here's  to  the  fairy  mice  that  bite 

The  elephants  fat  and  wise  : 

Hidden  in  the  hay-pile  while  the  elephant  thunder  rages. 

Here's  to  the  scurrying,  timid  mice 

Through  whom  the  proud  cause  dies. 

Here's  to  the  seeming  accident 

When  all  is  planned  and  working, 

All  the  flywheels  turning, 

Not  a  vassal  shirking. 

Here's  to  the  hidden  tunneling  thing 

That  brings  the  mountain's  groans. 

Here's  to  the  midnight  scamps  that  gnaw, 

Gnawing  away  the  thrones. 


20  WHEN  BRYAN   SPEAKS 


WHEN  BRYAN  SPEAKS 

When  Bryan  speaks,  the  town's  a  hive. 
From  miles  around,  the  autos  drive. 
The  sparrow  chirps.     The  rooster  crows. 
The  place  is  kicking  and  alive. 

When  Bryan  speaks,  the  bunting  glows. 
The  raw  procession  onward  flows. 
The  small  dogs  bark.     The  children  laugh 
A  wind  of  springtime  fancy  blows. 

When  Bryan  speaks,  the  wigwam  shakes. 
The  corporation  magnate  quakes. 
The  pre-convention  plot  is  smashed. 
The  valiant  pleb  full-armed  awakes. 

When  Bryan  speaks,  the  sky  is  ours, 
The  wheat,  the  forests,  and  the  flowers. 
And  who  is  here  to  say  us  nay  ? 
Fled  are  the  ancient  tyrant  powers. 


WHEN  BRYAN   SPEAKS  21 

When  Bryan  speaks,  then  I  rejoice. 

His  is  the  strange  composite  voice 

Of  many  million  singing  souls 

Who  make  world-brotherhood  their  choice. 

Written  in  WASHINGTON,  D.C. 
February,  1915. 


TO   JANE   ADDAMS  AT  THE   HAGUE 


TO  JANE  ADDAMS  AT  THE  HAGUE 

Two  Poems,  written  on  the  Sinking  of  the  Lusitania. 
Appearing  in  the  Chicago  Herald,  May  11,  1915. 

I.   SPEAK  Now  FOR  PEACE 

Lady  of  Light,  and  our  best  woman,  and  queen, 
Stand  now  for  peace,  (though  anger  breaks  your  heart), 
Though  naught  but  smoke  and  flame  and  drowning  is  seen. 

Lady  of  Light,  speak,  though  you  speak  alone, 

Though  your  voice  may  seem  as  a  dove's  in  this  howling 

flood, 
It  is  heard  to-night  by  every  senate  and  throne. 

Though  the  widening  battle  of  millions  and  millions  of  men 
Threatens  to-night  to  sweep  the  whole  of  the  earth, 
Back  of  the  smoke  is  the  promise  of  kindness  again. 

II.   TOLSTOI  is  PLOWING  YET 

Tolstoi  is  plowing  yet.     When  the  smoke-clouds  break, 
High  in  the  sky  shines  a  field  as  wide  as  the  world. 
There  he  toils  for  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven's  sake. 


TO  JANE  ADDAMS  AT  THE  HAGUE  23 

Ah,  he  is  taller  than  clouds  of  the  little  earth. 

Only  the  congress  of  planets  is  over  him, 

And  the  arching  path  where  new  sweet  stars  have  birth. 

Wearing  his  peasant  dress,  his  head  bent  low, 
Tolstoi,  that  angel  of  Peace,  is  plowing  yet ; 
Forward,  across  the  field,  his  horses  go. 


24     THE  TALE  OF  THE  TIGER  TREE 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TIGER  TREE 

A  Fantasy,  dedicated  to  the  little  poet  Alice  Oliver 
Henderson,  ten  years  old. 

The  Fantasy  shows  how  tiger-hearts  are  the  cause  of 
war  in  all  ages.  It  shows  how  the  mammoth  forces  may 
be  either  friends  or  enemies  of  the  struggle  for  peace. 
It  shows  how  the  dream  of  peace  is  unconquerable  and 

eternal. 

i 

Peace-of-the-Heart,  my  own  for  long, 
Whose  shining  hair  the  May-winds  fan, 
Making  it  tangled  as  they  can, 
A  mystery  still,  star-shining  yet, 
Through  ancient  ages  known  to  me 
And  now  once  more  reborn  with  me :  — 

This  is  the  tale  of  the  Tiger  Tree 

A  hundred  times  the  height  of  a  man, 

Lord  of  the  race  since  the  world  began. 

This  is  my  city  Springfield, 

My  home  on  the  breast  of  the  plain. 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TIGER  TREE  25 

The  state  house  towers  to  heaven, 

By  an  arsenal  gray  as  the  rain  .  .  . 

And  suddenly  all  is  mist, 

And  I  walk  in  a  world  apart, 

In  the  forest-age  when  I  first  knelt  down 

At  your  feet,  O  Peace-of-the-Heart. 

This  is  the  wonder  of  twilight : 

Three  times  as  high  as  the  dome 

Tiger-striped  trees  encircle  the  town, 

Golden  geysers  of  foam. 

While  giant  white  parrots  sail  past  in  their  pride. 

The  roofs  now  are  clouds  and  storms  that  they  ride. 

And  there  with  the  huntsmen  of  mound-builder  days 

Through  jungle  and  meadow  I  stride. 

And  the  Tiger  Tree  leaf  is  falling  around 

As  it  fell  when  the  world  began : 

Like  a  monstrous  tiger-skin,  stretched  on  the  ground, 

Or  the  cloak  of  a  medicine  man. 

A  deep-crumpled  gossamer  web, 

Fringed  with  the  fangs  of  a  snake. 

The  wind  swirls  it  down  from  the  leperous  boughs. 

It  shimmers  on  clay-hill  and  lake, 

With  the  gleam  of  great  bubbles  of  blood, 

Or  coiled  like  a  rainbow  shell. 


26     THE  TALE  OF  THE  TIGER  TREE 

I  feast  on  the  stem  of  the  Leaf  as  I  march. 
I  am  burning  with  Heaven  and  Hell. 

ii 

The  gray  king  died  in  his  hour. 
Then  we  crowned  you,  the  prophetess  wise : 
Peace-of-the-Heart  we  deeply  adored 
For  the  witchcraft  hid  in  your  eyes. 
Gift  from  the  sky,  overmastering  all, 
You  sent  forth  your  magical  parrots  to  call 
The  plot-hatching  prince  of  the  tigers, 
To  your  throne  by  the  red-clay  wall. 

Thus  came  that  genius  insane  : 

Spitting  and  slinking, 

Sneering  and  vain, 

He  sprawled  to  your  grassy  throne,  drunk  on  The  Leaf, 

The  drug  that  was  cunning  and  splendor  and  grief. 

He  had  fled  from  the  mammoth  by  day, 

He  had  blasted  the  mammoth  by  night, 

War  was  his  drunkenness, 

War  was  his  dreaming, 

War  was  his  love  and  his  play. 

And  he  hissed  at  your  heavenly  glory 

While  his  councillors  snarled  in  delight, 


Asking  in  irony  :  "What  shall  we  learn 
From  this  whisperer,  fragile  and  white  ?  " 

And  had  you  not  been  an  enchantress 

They  would  not  have  loitered  to  mock 

Nor  spared  your  white  parrots  who  walked  by  their  paws 

With  bantering  venturesome  talk. 

You  made  a  white  fire  of  The  Leaf. 

You  sang  while  the  tiger-chiefs  hissed. 

You  chanted  of  "Peace  to  the  wonderful  world." 

And  they  saw  you  in  dazzling  mist. 

And  their  steps  were  no  longer  insane, 

Kindness  came  down  like  the  rain, 

They  dreamed  that  like  fleet  young  ponies  they  feasted 

On  succulent  grasses  and  grain. 


Then  came  the  black-mammoth  chief : 

Long-haired  and  shaggy  and  great, 

Proud  and  sagacious  he  marshalled  his  court : 

(You  had  sent  him  your  parrots  of  state.) 

His  trunk  in  rebellion  upcurled, 

A  curse  at  the  tiger  he  hurled. 

Huge  elephants  trumpeted  there  by  his  side, 


28     THE  TALE  OF  THE  TIGER  TREE 

And  mastodon-chiefs  of  the  world. 

But  higher  magic  began. 

For  the  turbulent  vassals  of  man. 

You  harnessed  their  fever,  you  conquered  their  ire, 

Their  hearts  turned  to  flowers  through  holy  desire, 

For  their  darling  and  star  you  were  crowned, 

And  their  raging  demons  were  bound. 

You  rode  on  the  back  of  the  yellow-streaked  king, 

His  loose  neck  was  wreathed  with  a  mistletoe  ring. 

Primordial  elephants  loomed  by  your  side, 

And  our  clay -painted  children  danced  by  your  path, 

Chanting  the  death  of  the  kingdoms  of  wrath. 

You  wrought  until  night  with  us  all. 

The  fierce  brutes  fawned  at  your  call, 

Then  slipped  to  their  lairs,  song-chained. 

And  thus  you  sang  sweetly,  and  reigned  : 

"Immortal  is  the  inner  peace,  free  to  beasts  and  men. 

Beginning  in  the  darkness,  the  mystery  will  conquer, 

And  now  it  comforts  every  heart  that  seeks  for  love 

again. 

And  now  the  mammoth  bows  the  knee, 
We  hew  down  every  Tiger  Tree, 

We  send  each  tiger  bound  in  love  and  glory  to  his  den, 
Bound  in  love  .  .  .  and  wisdom  .  .  .  and  glory,  ...  to 

his  den." 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TIGER  TREE     29 

in 

"Beware  of  the  trumpeting  swine," 

Came  the  howl  from  the  northward  that  night. 

Twice-rebel  tigers  warning  was  still 

If  we  held  not  beside  them  it  boded  us  ill. 

From  the  parrots  translating  the  cry, 

And  the  apes  in  the  trees  came  the  whine : 

"Beware  of  the  trumpeting  swine. 

Beware  of  the  faith  of  a  mammoth." 

"Beware  of  the  faith  of  a  tiger," 

Came  the  roar  from  the  southward  that  night. 

Trumpeting  mammoths  warning  us  still 

If  we  held  not  beside  them  it  boded  us  ill. 

The  frail  apes  wailed  to  us  all, 

The  parrots  reechoed  the  call : 

"Beware  of  the  faith  of  a  tiger." 

From  the  heights  of  the  forest  the  watchers  could  see 

The  tiger-cats  crunching  the  Leaf  of  the  Tree 

Lashing  themselves,  and  scattering  foam, 

Killing  our  huntsmen,  hurrying  home. 

The  chiefs  of  the  mammoths  our  mastery  spurned, 

And  eastward  restlessly  fumed  and  burned. 

The  peacocks  squalled  out  the  news  of  their  drilling 

And  told  how  they  trampled,  maneuvered,  and  turned. 


30  THE  TALE  OF  THE  TIGER  TREE 

Ten  thousand  man-hating  tigers 

Whirling  down  from  the  north,  like  a  flood  ! 

Ten  thousand  mammoths  oncoming 

From  the  south  as  avengers  of  blood ! 

Our  child-queen  was  mourning,  her  magic  was  dead, 

The  roots  of  the  Tiger  Tree  reeking  with  red. 

IV 

This  is  the  tale  of  the  Tiger  Tree 

A  hundred  times  the  height  of  a  man, 

Lord  of  the  race  since  the  world  began. 

We  marched  to  the  mammoths, 

We  pledged  them  our  steel, 

And  scorning  you,  sang :  — 

"We  are  men, 

We  are  men." 

We  mounted  their  necks, 

And  they  stamped  a  wide  reel. 

We  sang : 

"We  are  fighting  the  hell-cats  again, 

We  are  mound-builder  men, 

We  are  elephant  men." 

We  left  you  there,  lonely, 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TIGER  TREE  31 

Beauty  your  power, 

Wisdom  your  watchman, 

To  hold  the  clay  tower. 

While  the  black-mammoths  boomed  — 

"You  are  elephant  men, 

Men, 

Men, 

Elephant  men." 

The  dawn- winds  prophesied  battles  untold. 

While  the  Tiger  Trees  roared  of  the  glories  of  old, 

Of  the  masterful  spirits  and  hard. 

The  drunken  cats  came  in  their  joy 

In  the  sunrise,  a  glittering  wave. 

"We  are  tigers,  are  tigers,"  they  yowled. 

"Down, 

Down, 

Go  the  swine  to  the  grave." 

But  we  tramp 

Tramp 

Trampled  them  there, 

Then  charged  with  our  sabres  and  spears. 

The  swish  of  the  sabre, 

The  swish  of  the  sabre, 

Was  a  marvellous  tune  in  our  ears. 


32     THE  TALE  OF  THE  TIGER  TREE 

We  yelled  "We  are  men, 

We  are  men." 

As  we  bled  to  death  in  the  sun.  .  .  . 

Then  staunched  our  horrible  wounds 

With  the  cry  that  the  battle  was  won.  .  .  . 

And  at  last, 

When  the  black-mammoth  legion 

Split  the  night  with  their  song :  — 

"Right  is  braver  than  wrong, 

Right  is  stronger  than  wrong," 

The  buzzards  came  taunting : 

"Down  from  the  north 

Tiger-nations  are  sweeping  along." 


Then  we  ate  of  the  ravening  Leaf 

As  our  savage  fathers  of  old. 

No  longer  our  wounds  made  us  weak, 

No  longer  our  pulses  were  cold. 

Though  half  of  my  troops  were  afoot, 

(For  the  great  who  had  borne  them  were  slain) 

We  dreamed  we  were  tigers,  and  leaped 

And  foamed  with  that  vision  insane. 

We  cried  "We  are  soldiers  of  doom, 

Doom, 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TIGER  TREE  33 

Sabres  of  glory  and  doom." 

We  wreathed  the  king  of  the  mammoths 

In  the  tiger-leaves'  terrible  bloom. 

We  flattered  the  king  of  the  mammoths, 

Loud-rattling  sabres  and  spears. 

The  swish  of  the  sabre, 

The  swish  of  the  sabre, 

Was  a  marvellous  tune  in  his  ears. 


This  was  the  end  of  the  battle. 

The  tigers  poured  by  in  a  tide 

Over  us  all  with  their  caterwaul  call, 

"We  are  the  tigers," 

They  cried. 

"We  are  the  sabres," 

They  cried. 

But  we  laughed  while  our  blades  swept  wide, 

While  the  dawn-rays  stabbed  through  the  gloom. 

"We  are  suns  on  fire"  was  our  yell  — 

"Suns  on  fire."  .  .  . 

But  man-child  and  mastodon  fell, 

Mammoth  and  elephant  fell. 

The  fangs  of  the  devil-cats  closed  on  the  world, 

Plunged  it  to  blackness  and  doom. 


34      THE  TALE  OF  THE  TIGER  TREE 

The  desolate  red-clay  wall 
Echoed  the  parrots'  call :  — 

"Immortal  is  the  inner  peace,  free  to  beasts  and  men. 
Beginning  in  the  darkness,  the  mystery  will  conquer, 
And  now  it  comforts  every  heart  that  seeks  for  love  again. 
And  now  the  mammoth  bows  the  knee, 
We  hew  down  every  Tiger  Tree, 

We  send  each  tiger  bound  in  love  and  glory  to  his  den, 
Bound  in  love  .  .  .  and  wisdom  .  .  .  and  glory,  ...  to 
his  den." 

A  peacock  screamed  of  his  beauty 

On  that  broken  wall  by  the  trees, 

Chiding  his  little  mate, 

Spreading  his  fans  in  the  breeze  .  .  . 

And  you,  with  eyes  of  a  bride, 

Knelt  on  the  wall  at  my  side, 

The  deathless  song  in  your  mouth  .  .  . 

A  million  new  tigers  swept  south  .  .  . 

As  we  laughed  at  the  peacock,  and  died. 

This  is  my  vision  in  Springfield : 

Three  times  as  high  as  the  dome, 

Tiger-striped  trees  encircle  the  town, 

Golden  geysers  of  foam ;  — 

Though  giant  white  parrots  sail  past,  giving  voice, 

Though  I  walk  with  Peace-of-the-Heart  and  rejoice. 


THE  MERCIFUL  HAND  35 


THE  MERCIFUL  HAND 

Written  to  Miss  Alice  L.  F.  Fitzgerald,  Edith  Cavell 
memorial  nurse,  going  to  the  front. 

Your  fine  white  hand  is  Heaven's  gift 
To  cure  the  wide  world,  stricken  sore, 
Bleeding  at  the  breast  and  head, 
Tearing  at  its  wounds  once  more. 

Your  white  hand  is  a  prophecy, 
A  living  hope  that  Christ  shall  come 
And  make  the  nations  merciful, 
Hating  the  bayonet  and  drum. 

Each  desperate  burning  brain  you  soothe, 
Or  ghastly  broken  frame  you  bind, 
Brings  one  day  nearer  our  bright  goal, 
The  love-alliance  of  mankind. 

WELLESLEY. 
February,  1916. 


THIRD  SECTION 

AMERICA  AT  WAR  WITH  GERMANY 

BEGINNING  APRIL,  1917 


37 


OUR  MOTHER  POCAHONTAS 

(NOTE  :  —  Pocahontas  is  buried  at  Gravesend,  England.) 

"Pocahontas'  body,  lovely  as  a  poplar,  sweet  as  a  red 
haw  in  November  or  a  pawpaw  in  May  —  did  she  wonder  ? 
does  she  remember  —  in  the  dust  —  in  the  cool  tombs?" 

CARL  SANDBURG. 


Powhatan  was  conqueror, 
Powhatan  was  emperor. 
He  was  akin  to  wolf  and  bee, 
Brother  of  the  hickory  tree. 
Son  of  the  red  lightning  stroke 
And  the  lightning-shivered  oak. 
His  panther-grace  bloomed  in  the  maid 
Who  laughed  among  the  winds  and  played 
In  excellence  of  savage  pride, 
Wooing  the  forest,  open-eyed, 
In  the  springtime, 
In  Virginia, 

Our  Mother,  Pocahontas. 
39 


40 


Her  skin  was  rosy  copper-red. 

And  high  she  held  her  beauteous  head. 

Her  step  was  like  a  rustling  leaf : 

Her  heart  a  nest,  untouched  of  grief. 

She  dreamed  of  sons  like  Powhatan, 

And  through  her  blood  the  lightning  ran. 

Love-cries  with  the  birds  she  sung, 

Birdlike 

In  the  grape-vine  swung. 

The  Forest,  arching  low  and  wide 

Gloried  in  its  Indian  bride. 

Rolfe,  that  dim  adventurer 

Had  not  come  a  courtier. 

John  Rolfe  is  not  our  ancestor. 

We  rise  from  out  the  soul  of  her 

Held  in  native  wonderland, 

While  the  sun's  rays  kissed  her  hand, 

In  the  springtime, 

In  Virginia, 

Our  Mother,  Pocahontas. 

ii 

She  heard  the  forest  talking, 
Across  the  sea  came  walking, 
And  traced  the  paths  of  Daniel  Boone, 


OUR  MOTHER  POCAHONTAS 

Then  westward  chased  the  painted  moon. 

She  passed  with  wild  young  feet 

On  to  Kansas  wheat, 

On  to  the  miners'  west, 

The  echoing  canons'  guest, 

Then  the  Pacific  sand, 

Waking, 

Thrilling, 

The  midnight  land.  .  .  . 

On  Adams  street  and  Jefferson  — 
Flames  coming  up  from  the  ground  ! 
On  Jackson  street  and  Washington  — 
Flames  coming  up  from  the  ground ! 
And  why,  until  the  dawning  sun 
Are  flames  coming  up  from  the  ground  ? 
Because,  through  drowsy  Springfield  sped 
This  red-skin  queen,  with  feathered  head, 
With  winds  and  stars,  that  pay  her  court 
And  leaping  beasts,  that  make  her  sport ; 
Because,  gray  Europe's  rags  august 
She  tramples  in  the  dust ; 
Because  we  are  her  fields  of  corn ; 
Because  our  fires  are  all  reborn 
From  her  bosom's  deathless  embers, 


OUR  MOTHER  POCAHONTAS 

Flaming 

As  she  remembers 

The  springtime 

And  Virginia, 

Our  Mother,  Pocahontas. 

in 

We  here  renounce  our  Saxon  blood. 
Tomorrow's  hopes,  an  April  flood 
Come  roaring  in.     The  newest  race 
Is  born  of  her  resilient  grace. 
We  here  renounce  our  Teuton  pride  : 
Our  Norse  and  Slavic  boasts  have  died 
Italian  dreams  are  swept  away, 
And  Celtic  feuds  are  lost  today.  .  .  . 

She  sings  of  lilacs,  maples,  wheat, 

Her  own  soil  sings  beneath  her  feet, 

Of  springtime 

And  Virginia, 

Our  Mother,  Pocahontas. 


CONCERNING  EMPERORS  43 


CONCERNING  EMPERORS 

I.   GOD  SEND  THE  REGICIDE 

Would  that  the  lying  rulers  of  the  world 
Were  brought  to  block  for  tyrannies  abhorred. 
Would  that  the  sword  of  Cromwell  and  the  Lord, 
The  sword  of  Joshua  and  Gideon, 
Hewed  hip  and  thigh  the  hosts  of  Midian. 
God  send  that  ironside  ere  tomorrow's  sun ; 
Let  Gabriel  and  Michael  with  him  ride. 
God  send  the  Regicide. 

II.   A  COLLOQUIAL  REPLY  :   To  ANY  NEWSBOY 

If  you  lay  for  lago  at  the  stage  door  with  a  brick 
You  have  missed  the  moral  of  the  play. 
He  will  have  a  midnight  supper  with  Othello  and  his  wife. 
They  will  chirp  together  and  be  gay. 
But  the  things  lago  stands  for  must  go  down  into  the  dust : 
Lying  and  suspicion  and  conspiracy  and  lust. 
And  I  cannot  hate  the  Kaiser  (I  hope  you  understand.) 
Yet  I  chase  the  thing  he  stands  for  with  a  brickbat  in  my 
hand. 


44  NIAGARA 


NIAGARA 

i 

Within  the  town  of  Buffalo 
Are  prosy  men  with  leaden  eyes. 
Like  ants  they  worry  to  and  fro, 
(Important  men,  in  Buffalo.) 
But  only  twenty  miles  away 
A  deathless  glory  is  at  play  : 
Niagara,  Niagara. 

The  women  buy  their  lace  and  cry :  — 

"O  such  a  delicate  design," 

And  over  ostrich  feathers  sigh, 

By  counters  there,  in  Buffalo. 

The  children  haunt  the  trinket  shops, 

They  buy  false-faces,  bells,  and  tops, 

Forgetting  great  Niagara. 

Within  the  town  of  Buffalo 

Are  stores  with  garnets,  sapphires,  pearls, 

Rubies,  emeralds  aglow,  — 


NIAGARA  45 

Opal  chains  in  Buffalo, 

Cherished  symbols  of  success. 

They  value  not  your  rainbow  dress  :  — 

Niagara,  Niagara. 

The  shaggy  meaning  of  her  name 
This  Buffalo,  this  recreant  town, 
Sharps  and  lawyers  prune  and  tame : 
Few  pioneers  in  Buffalo ; 
Except  young  lovers  flushed  and  fleet 
And  winds  hallooing  down  the  street : 
"Niagara,  Niagara." 

The  journalists  are  sick  of  ink  : 

Boy  prodigals  are  lost  in  wine, 

By  night  where  white  and  red  lights  blink, 

The  eyes  of  Death,  in  Buffalo. 

And  only  twenty  miles  away 

Are  starlit  rocks  and  healing  spray :  — 

Niagara,  Niagara. 

Above  the  town  a  tiny  bird, 
A  shining  speck  at  sleepy  dawn, 
Forgets  the  ant-hill  so  absurd, 
This  self-important  Buffalo. 


46  NIAGARA 

Descending  twenty  miles  away 

He  bathes  his  wings  at  break  of  day 

Niagara,  Niagara. 

ii 

What  marching  men  of  Buffalo 
Flood  the  streets  in  rash  crusade  ? 
Fools-to-free-the-world,  they  go, 
Primeval  hearts  from  Buffalo. 
Red  cataracts  of  France  today 
Awake,  three  thousand  miles  away 
An  echo  of  Niagara, 
The  cataract  Niagara. 


MARK  TWAIN  AND  JOAN  OF  ARC  47 


MARK  TWAIN  AND  JOAN  OF  ARC 

When  Yankee  soldiers  reach  the  barricade 
Then  Joan  of  Arc  gives  each  the  accolade. 

For  she  is  there  in  armor  clad,  today, 

All  the  young  poets  of  the  wide  world  say. 

Which  of  our  freemen  did  she  greet  the  first, 
Seeing  him  come  against  the  fires  accurst  ? 

Mark  Twain,  our  Chief,  with  neither  smile  nor  jest, 
Leading  to  war  our  youngest  and  our  best. 

The  Yankee  to  King  Arthur's  court  returns. 
The  sacred  flag  of  Joan  above  him  burns. 

For  she  has  called  his  soul  from  out  the  tomb. 
And  where  she  stands,  there  he  will  stand  till  doom. 


But  I,  I  can  but  mourn,  and  mourn  again 

At  bloodshed  caused  by  angels,  saints,  and  men. 


48  THE  BANKRUPT  PEACE  MAKER 


THE  BANKRUPT  PEACE  MAKER 

I  opened  the  ink-well  and  smoke  filled  the  room. 

The  smoke  formed  the  giant  frog-cat  of  my  doom. 

His  web  feet  left  dreadful  slime  tracks  on  the  floor. 

He  had  hammer  and  nails  that  he  laid  by  the  door. 

He  sprawled  on  the  table,  claw-hands  in  my  hair. 

He  looked  through  my  heart  to  the  mud  that  was  there. 

Like  a  black-mailer  hating  his  victim  he  spoke  : 

"When  I  see  all  your  squirming  I  laugh  till  I  choke 

Singing  of  peace.     Railing  at  battle. 

Soothing  a  handful  with  saccharine  prattle. 

All  the  millions  of  earth  have  voted  for  fight. 

You  are  voting  for  talk,  with  hands  lily  white." 

He  leaped  to  the  floor,  then  grew  seven  feet  high, 

Beautiful,  terrible,  scorn  in  his  eye  : 

The  Devil  Eternal,  Apollo  grown  old, 

With  beard  of  bright  silver  and  garments  of  gold. 

"What  will  you  do  to  end  war  for  good? 

Will  you  stand  by  the  book-case,  be  nailed  to  the  wood  ?" 

I  stretched  out  my  arms.     He  drove  the  nails  deep, 

Silently,  coolly.     The  house  was  asleep, 


THE  BANKRUPT   PEACE  MAKER  49 

I  hung  for  three  years,  forbidden  to  die. 

I  seemed  but  a  shadow  the  servants  passed  by. 

At  the  end  of  the  time  with  hot  irons  he  returned. 

"The  Quitter  Sublime"  on  my  bosom  he  burned. 

As  he  seared  me  he  hissed  :  "You  are  wearing  away. 

The  good  angels  tell  me  you  leave  them  today. 

You  want  to  come  down  from  the  nails  in  the  door. 

The  victor  must  hang  there  three  hundred  years  more. 

If  any  prig-saint  would  outvote  all  mankind 

He  must  use  an  immortally  resolute  mind. 

Think  what  the  saints  of  Benares  endure, 

Through  infinite  birthpangs  their  courage  is  sure. 

Self-tortured,  self-ruled,  they  build  their  powers  high, 

Until  they  are  gods,  overmaster  the  sky." 

Then  he  pulled  out  the  nails.     He  shouted  "Come  in." 

To  heal  me  there  stepped  in  a  lady  of  sin. 

Her  hand  was  in  mine.     We  walked  in  the  sun. 

She  said  :  "Now  forget  them,  the  Saxon  and  Hun. 

You  are  dreary  and  aged  and  silly  and  weak. 

Let  us  smell  the  sweet  groves.     Let  the  summertime  speak." 

We  walked  to  the  river.     We  swam  there  in  state. 

I  was  a  serpent.     She  was  my  mate. 

I  forgot  in  the  marsh,  as  I  tumbled  about, 

That  trial  in  my  room,  where  I  did  not  hold  out. 

Since  I  was  a  serpent,  my  mate  seemed  to  me 


50  THE  BANKRUPT  PEACE  MAKER 

As  a  mermaiden  seems  to  a  fisher  at  sea, 

Or  a  whisky  soaked  girl  to  a  whisky  soaked  king. 

I  woke.     She  had  turned  to  a  ravening  thing 

On  the  table  —  a  buzzard  with  leperous  head. 

She  tore  up  my  rhymes  and  my  drawings.     She  said 

"I  am  your  own  cheap  bankrupt  soul. 

Will  you  die  for  the  nations,  making  them  whole  ? 

We  joy  in  the  swamp  and  here  we  are  gay. 

Will  you  bring  your  fine  peace  to  the  nations  today?" 


"THIS,  MY  SONG,  IS  MADE  FOR  KERENSKY"     51 


"THIS,  MY  SONG,  IS  MADE  FOR  KERENSKY" 

(Being  a  Chant  of  the  American  Soap-Box  and  the  Russian 
Revolution.) 

O  market  square,  O  slattern  place, 
Is  glory  in  your  slack  disgrace  ? 
Plump  quack  doctors  sell  their  pills, 
Gentle  grafters  sell  brass  watches, 
Silly  anarchists  yell  their  ills. 
Shall  we  be  as  weird  as  these  ? 
In  the  breezes  nod  and  wheeze? 

Heaven's  mass  is  sung, 
Tomorrow's  mass  is  sung 
In  a  spirit  tongue 
By  wind  and  dust  and  birds, 
The  high  mass  of  liberty, 
While  wave  the  banners  red: 
Sung  round  the  soap-box, 
A  mass  for  soldiers  dead. 

When  you  leave  your  faction  in  the  once-loved  hall, 
Like  a  true  American  tongue-lash  them  all, 


52     "THIS,  MY  SONG,  IS  MADE  FOR  KERENSKY" 

Stand  then  on  the  corner  under  starry  skies 

And  get  you  a  gang  of  the  worn  and  the  wise. 

The  soldiers  of  the  Lord  may  be  squeaky  when  they  rally, 

The  soldiers  of  the  Lord  are  a  queer  little  army, 

But  the  soldiers  of  the  Lord,  before  the  year  is  through, 

Will  gather  the  whole  nation,  recruit  all  creation, 

To  smite  the  hosts  abhorred,  and  all  the  heavens  renew  — 

Enforcing  with  the  bayonet  the  thing  the  ages  teach  — 

Free  speech  ! 

Free  speech  ! 

Down  with  the  Prussians,  and  all  their  works. 

Down  with  the  Turks. 

Down  with  every  army  that  fights  against  the  soap-box, 

The  Pericles,  Socrates,  Diogenes  soap-box, 

The  old  Elijah,  Jeremiah,  John-the-Baptist  soap-box, 

The  Rousseau,  Mirabeau,  Danton  soap-box, 

The  Karl  Marx,  Henry  George,  Woodrow  Wilson  soap-box. 

We  will  make  the  wide  earth  safe  for  the  soap-box, 

The  everlasting  foe  of  beastliness  and  tyranny, 

Platform  of  liberty  :  —  Magna  Charta  liberty, 

Andrew  Jackson  liberty,  bleeding  Kansas  liberty, 

New-born  Russian  liberty :  — 

Battleship  of  thought, 

The  round  world  over, 


"THIS,  MY  SONG,  IS  MADE  FOR  KERENSKY"     53 

Loved  by  the  red-hearted, 

Loved  by  the  broken-hearted, 

Fair  young  Amazon  or  proud  tough  rover, 

Loved  by  the  lion, 

Loved  by  the  lion, 

Loved  by  the  lion, 

Feared  by  the  fox. 

The  Russion  Revolution  is  the  world  revolution. 

Death  at  the  bedstead  of  every  Kaiser  knocks. 

The  Hohenzollern  army  shall  be  felled  like  the  ox. 

The  fatal  hour  is  striking  in  all  the  doomsday  clocks. 

The  while,  by  freedom's  alchemy 

Beauty  is  born. 

Ring  every  sleigh-bell,  ring  every  church  bell, 

Blow  the  clear  trumpet,  and  listen  for  the  answer :  — 

The  blast  from  the  sky  of  the  Gabriel  horn. 

Hail  the  Russian  picture  around  the  little  box :  — 
Exiles, 

Troops  in  files, 
Generals  in  uniform, 
Mujiks  in  their  smocks, 

And   holy   maiden   soldiers   who    have   cut   away   their 
locks. 


54    "THIS,  MY  SONG,  IS  MADE  FOR  KERENSKY" 

All  the  peoples  and  the  nations  in  processions  mad  and 

great, 
Are  rolling  through  the  Russian  Soul  as  through  a  city 

gate : — 
As  though  it  were  a  street  of  stars  that  paves  the  shadowy 

deep. 
And  mighty  Tolstoi  leads  the  van  along  the  stairway  steep. 

But  now  the  people  shout : 

"Hail  to  Kerensky, 

He  hurled  the  tyrants  out." 

And  this  my  song  is  made  for  Kerensky, 

Prophet  of  the  world-wide  intolerable  hope, 

There  on  the  soap-box,  seasoned,  dauntless, 

There  amid  the  Russian  celestial  kaleidoscope, 

Flags  of  liberty,  rags  and  battlesmoke. 

Moscow  and  Chicago ! 

Come  let  us  praise  battling  Kerensky, 

Bravo !  Bravo ! 

Comrade  Kerensky  the  thunderstorm  and  rainbow  ! 

Comrade  Kerensky,  Bravo,  Bravo  ! 

August,  1917. 


FOURTH  SECTION 
TRAGEDIES,  COMEDIES,  AND  DREAMS 


OUR  GUARDIAN  ANGELS  AND  THEIR 
CHILDREN 

Where  a  river  roars  in  rapids 
And  doves  in  maples  fret, 
Where  peace  has  decked  the  pastures 
Our  guardian  angels  met. 

Long  they  had  sought  each  other 
In  God's  mysterious  name, 
Had  climbed  the  solemn  chaos  tides 
Alone,  with  hope  aflame : 

Amid  the  demon  deeps  had  wound 
By  many  a  fearful  way. 
As  they  beheld  each  other 
Their  shout  made  glad  the  day. 

No  need  of  purse  delayed  them, 
No  hand  of  friend  or  kin  — 
Nor  menace  of  the  bell  and  book, 
Nor  fear  of  mortal  sin. 
57 


58    OUR  GUARDIAN  ANGELS  AND  THEIR  CHILDREN 

You  did  not  speak,  my  girl, 

At  this,  our  parting  hour. 

Long  we  held  each  other 

And  watched  their  deeds  of  power. 

They  made  a  curious  Eden. 
We  saw  that  it  was  good. 
We  thought  with  them  in  unison. 
We  proudly  understood 

Their  amaranth  eternal, 
Their  roses  strange  and  fair, 
The  asphodels  they  scattered 
Upon  the  living  air. 

They  built  a  house  of  clouds 
With  skilled  immortal  hands. 
They  entered  through  the  silver  doors. 
Their  wings  were  wedded  brands. 

I  labored  up  the  valley 
To  granite  mountains  free. 
You  hurried  down  the  river 
To  Zidon  by  the  sea. 

But  at  their  place  of  meeting 
They  keep  a  home  and  shrine. 


OUR  GUARDIAN  ANGELS  AND  THEIR  CHILDREN    59 

Your  angel  twists  a  purple  flax, 
Then  weaves  a  mantle  fine. 

My  angel,  her  defender 
Upstanding,  spreads  the  light 
On  painted  clouds  of  fancy 
And  mists  that  touch  the  height. 

Their  sturdy  babes  speak  kindly 
And  fly  and  run  with  joy, 
Shepherding  the  helpless  lambs  — 
A  Grecian  girl  and  boy. 

These  children  visit  Heaven 

Each  year  and  make  of  worth 

All  we  planned  and  wrought  in  youth 

And  all  our  tears  on  earth. 

From  books  our  God  has  written 
They  sing  of  high  desire. 
They  turn  the  leaves  in  gentleness. 
Their  wings  are  folded  fire. 


60  EPITAPHS  FOR  TWO  PLAYERS 


EPITAPHS  FOR  TWO  PLAYERS 
I.   EDWIN  BOOTH 

An  old  actor  at  the  Player's  Club  told  me  that  Edwin 
Booth  first  impersonated  Hamlet  when  a  barnstormer  in 
California.  There  were  few  theatres,  but  the  hotels  were 
provided  with  crude  assembly  rooms  for  strolling  players. 

The  youth  played  in  the  blear  hotel. 
The  rafters  gleamed  with  glories  strange. 
And  winds  of  mourning  Elsinore 
Howling  at  chance  and  fate  and  change ; 
Voices  of  old  Europe's  dead 
Disturbed  the  new-built  cattle-shed, 
The  street,  the  high  and  solemn  range. 

The  while  the  coyote  barked  afar 

All  shadowy  was  the  battlement. 

The  ranch-boys  huddled  and  grew  pale, 

Youths  who  had  come  on  riot  bent. 

Forgot  were  pranks  well-planned  to  sting. 

Behold  there  rose  a  ghostly  king, 

And  veils  of  smoking  Hell  were  rent. 


EPITAPHS  FOR  TWO  PLAYERS  61 

When  Edwin  Booth  played  Hamlet,  then 

The  camp-drab's  tears  could  not  but  flow. 

Then  Romance  lived  and  breathed  and  burned. 

She  felt  the  frail  queen-mother's  woe, 

Thrilled  for  Ophelia,  fond  and  blind, 

And  Hamlet,  cruel,  yet  so  kind, 

And  moaned,  his  proud  words  hurt  her  so. 

A  haunted  place,  though  new  and  harsh  ! 
The  Indian  and  the  Chinaman 
And  Mexican  were  fain  to  learn 
What  had  subdued  the  Saxon  clan. 
Why  did  they  mumble,  brood,  and  stare 
When  the  court-players  curtsied  fair 
And  the  Gonzago  scene  began  ? 

And  ah,  the  duel  scene  at  last ! 

They  cheered  their  prince  with  stamping  feet. 

A  death-fight  in  a  palace  !  Yea, 

With  velvet  hangings  incomplete, 

A  pasteboard  throne,  a  pasteboard  crown, 

And  yet  a  monarch  tumbled  down, 

A  brave  lad  fought  in  splendor  meet. 

Was  it  a  palace  or  a  barn  ? 
Immortal  as  the  gods  he  flamed. 


62  EPITAPHS  FOR  TWO  PLAYERS 

There  in  his  last  great  hour  of  rage 
His  foil  avenged  a  mother  shamed. 
In  duty  stern,  in  purpose  deep 
He  drove  that  king  to  his  black  sleep 
And  died,  all  godlike  and  untamed. 


I  was  not  born  in  that  far  day. 

I  hear  the  tale  from  heads  grown  white. 

And  then  I  walk  that  earlier  street, 

The  mining  camp  at  candle-light. 

I  meet  him  wrapped  in  musings  fine 

Upon  some  whispering  silvery  line 

He  yet  resolves  to  speak  aright. 

II.   EPITAPH  FOR  JOHN  BUNNY,  MOTION  PICTURE 
COMEDIAN 

In  which  he  is  remembered  in  similitude,  by  reference  to 
Yorick,  the  king's  jester,  who  died  when  Hamlet  and 
Ophelia  were  children. 

Yorick  is  dead.     Boy  Hamlet  walks  forlorn 
Beneath  the  battlements  of  Elsinore. 
Where  are  those  oddities  and  capers  now 
That  used  to  "set  the  table  on  a  roar"  ? 


EPITAPHS  FOR  TWO  PLAYERS  63 

And  do  his  bauble-bells  beyond  the  clouds 
Ring  out,  and  shake  with  mirth  the  planets  bright  ? 
No  doubt  he  brings  the  blessed  dead  good  cheer, 
But  silence  broods  on  Elsinore  tonight. 

That  little  elf,  Ophelia,  eight  years  old, 
Upon  her  battered  doll's  staunch  bosom  weeps. 
("O  best  of  men,  that  wove  glad  fairy-tales.") 
With  tear-burned  face,  at  last  the  darling  sleeps. 

Hamlet  himself  could  not  give  cheer  or  help, 
Though  firm  and  brave,  with  his  boy -face  controlled. 
For  every  game  they  started  out  to  play 
Yorick  invented,  in  the  days  of  old. 

The  times  are  out  of  joint !     O  cursed  spite ! 
The  noble  jester  Yorick  comes  no  more. 
And  Hamlet  hides  his  tears  in  boyish  pride 
By  some  lone  turret-stair  of  Elsinore. 


64     MAE  MARSH,  MOTION  PICTURE  ACTRESS 


MAE  MARSH,  MOTION  PICTURE  ACTRESS 

In  "Man's  Genesis,"  "The  Wild  Girl  of  the  Sierras," 
"The  Wharf  Rat,"  "A  Girl  of  the  Paris  Streets,"  etc. 


The  arts  are  old,  old  as  the  stones 
From  which  man  carved  the  sphinx  austere. 
Deep  are  the  days  the  old  arts  bring  : 
Ten  thousand  years  of  yesteryear. 

ii 

She  is  madonna  in  an  art 
As  wild  and  young  as  her  sweet  eyes  : 
A  frail  dew  flower  from  this  hot  lamp 
That  is  today's  divine  surprise. 

Despite  raw  lights  and  gloating  mobs 
She  is  not  seared  :  a  picture  still : 
Rare  silk  the  fine  director's  hand 
May  weave  for  magic  if  he  will. 


MAE  MARSH,  MOTION  PICTURE  ACTRESS     65 

When  ancient  films  have  crumbled  like 
Papyrus  rolls  of  Egypt's  day, 
Let  the  dust  speak  :  "Her  pride  was  high, 
All  but  the  artist  hid  away  : 

"  Kin  to  the  myriad  artist  clan 
Since  time  began,  whose  work  is  dear." 
The  deep  new  ages  come  with  her, 
Tomorrow's  years  of  yesteryear. 


66  TWO  OLD  CROWS 


TWO  OLD  CROWS 

Two  old  crows  sat  on  a  fence  rail. 

Two  old  crows  sat  on  a  fence  rail, 

Thinking  of  effect  and  cause, 

Of  weeds  and  flowers, 

And  nature's  laws. 

One  of  them  muttered,  one  of  them  stuttered, 

One  of  them  stuttered,  one  of  them  muttered. 

Each  of  them  thought  far  more  than  he  uttered. 

One  crow  asked  the  other  crow  a  riddle. 

One  crow  asked  the  other  crow  a  riddle : 

The  muttering  crow 

Asked  the  stuttering  crow, 

"  Why  does  a  bee  have  a  sword  to  his  fiddle  ? 

Why  does  a  bee  have  a  sword  to  his  fiddle?" 

"Bee-cause,"  said  the  other  crow, 

"Bee-cause, 

BBBBBBBBBBBBBBB  B-cause." 

Just  then  a  bee  flew  close  to  their  rail :  — 
" Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz          zzzzzzzzz          zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz 
ZZZZZZZZ." 


TWO  OLD  CROWS  67 

And  those  two  black  crows 
Turned  pale, 

And  away  those  crows  did  sail. 
Why? 

BBBBBBBBBBBBBBB  B-cause. 
BBBBBBBBBBBBBBB  B-cause. 
"  Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz  zzzzzzzzzz  zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz 

ZZZZZZZ." 


68  THE  DRUNKARD'S  FUNERAL 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  FUNERAL 

"Yes,"  said  the  sister  with  the  little  pinched  face, 

The  busy  little  sister  with  the  funny  little  tract :  — 

"This  is  the  climax,  the  grand  fifth  act. 

There  rides  the  proud,  at  the  finish  of  his  race. 

There  goes  the  hearse,  the  mourners  cry, 

The  respectable  hearse  goes  slowly  by. 

The  wife  of  the  dead  has  money  in  her  purse, 

The  children  are  in  health,  so  it  might  have  been  worse. 

That  fellow  in  the  coffin  led  a  life  most  foul. 

A  fierce  defender  of  the  red  bar-tender, 

At  the  church  he  would  rail, 

At  the  preacher  he  would  howl. 

He  planted  every  deviltry  to  see  it  grow. 

He  wasted  half  his  income  on  the  lewd  and  the  low. 

He  would  trade  engender  for  the  red  bar-tender, 

He  would  homage  render  to  the  red  bar-tender, 

And  in  ultimate  surrender  to  the  red  bar-tender, 

He  died  of  the  tremens,  as  crazy  as  a  loon, 

And  his  friends  were  glad,  when  the  end  came  soon. 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  FUNERAL  69 

There  goes  the  hearse,  the  mourners  cry, 

The  respectable  hearse  goes  slowly  by. 

And  now,  good  friends,  since  you  see  how  it  ends, 

Let  each  nation-mender  flay  the  red  bar-tender,  — 

Abhor 

The  transgression 

Of  the  red  bar-tender,  — 

Ruin 

The  profession 

Of  the  red  bar-tender : 

Force  him  into  business  where  his  work  does  good. 

Let  him  learn  how  to  plough,  let  him   learn   to   chop 

wood, 
Let  him  learn  how  to   plough,  let  him   learn   to   chop 

wood. 

"The  moral, 

The  conclusion, 

The  verdict  now  you  know :  — 

'The  saloon  must  go, 

The  saloon  must  go, 

The  saloon, 

The  saloon, 

The  saloon, 

Must  go.'" 


70  THE  DRUNKARD'S  FUNERAL 

"You  are  right,  little  sister,"  I  said  to  myself, 

"You  are  right,  good  sister,"  I  said. 

"Though  you  wear  a  mussy  bonnet 

On  your  little  gray  head, 

You  are  right,  little  sister,"  I  said. 


THE  RAFT  71 


THE  RAFT 

The  whole  world  on  a  raft !    A  King  is  here, 

The  record  of  his  grandeur  but  a  smear. 

Is  it  his  deacon-beard,  or  old  bald  pate 

That  makes  the  band  upon  his  whims  to  wait  ? 

Loot  and  mud-honey  have  his  soul  defiled. 

Quack,  pig,  and  priest,  he  drives  camp-meetings  wild 

Until  they  shower  their  pennies  like  spring  rain 

That  he  may  preach  upon  the  Spanish  main. 

What  landlord,  lawyer,  voodoo-man  has  yet 

A  better  native  right  to  make  men  sweat  ? 

The  whole  world  on  a  raft !    A  Duke  is  here 

At  sight  of  whose  lank  jaw  the  muses  leer. 

Journeyman-printer,  lamb  with  ferret  eyes, 

In  life's  skullduggery  he  takes  the  prize  — 

Yet  stands  at  twilight  wrapped  in  Hamlet  dreams. 

Into  his  eyes  the  Mississippi  gleams. 

The  sandbar  sings  in  moonlit  veils  of  foam. 

A  candle  shines  from  one  lone  cabin  home. 

The  waves  reflect  it  like  a  drunken  star. 


72  THE  RAFT 

A  banjo  and  a  hymn  are  heard  afar. 

No  solace  on  the  lazy  shore  .excels 

The  Duke's  blue  castle  with  its  steamer-bells. 

The  floor  is  running  water,  and  the  roof 

The  stars'  brocade  with  cloudy  warp  and  woof. 

And  on  past  sorghum  fields  the  current  swings. 

To  Christian  Jim  the  Mississippi  sings. 

This  prankish  wave-swept  barque  has  won  its  place, 

A  ship  of  jesting  for  the  human  race. 

But  do  you  laugh  when  Jim  bows  down  forlorn 

His  babe,  his  deaf  Elizabeth  to  mourn? 

And  do  you  laugh,  when  Jim,  from  Huck  apart 

Gropes  through  the  rain  and  night  with  breaking  heart  ? 

But  now  that  imp  is  here  and  we  can  smile, 

Jim's  child  and  guardian  this  long-drawn  while. 

With  knife  and  heavy  gun,  a  hunter  keen, 

He  stops  for  squirrel-meat  in  islands  green. 

The  eternal  gamin,  sleeping  half  the  day, 

Then  stripped  and  sleek,  a  river-fish  at  play. 

And  then  well-dressed,  ashore,  he  sees  life  spilt. 

The  river-bank  is  one  bright  crazy-quilt 

Of  patch- work  dream,  of  wrath  more  red  than  lust, 

Where  long-haired  feudist  Hotspurs  bite  the  dust  .  .  . 


THE  RAFT  73 

This  Huckleberry  Finn  is  but  the  race, 
America,  still  lovely  in  disgrace, 
New  childhood  of  the  world,  that  blunders  on 
And  wonders  at  the  darkness  and  the  dawn, 
The  poor  damned  human  race,  still  unimpressed 
With  its  damnation,  all  its  gamin  breast 
Chorteling  at  dukes  and  kings  with  nigger  Jim, 
Then  plotting  for  their  fall,  with  jestings  grim. 

Behold  a  Republic 

Where  a  river  speaks  to  men 

And  cries  to  those  that  love  its  ways, 

Answering  again 

When  in  the  heart's  extravagance 

The  rascals  bend  to  say 

"O  singing  Mississippi 

Shine,  sing  for  us  today." 

But  who  is  this  in  sweeping  Oxford  gown 
Who  steers  the  raft,  or  ambles  up  and  down, 
Or  throws  his  gown  aside,  and  there  in  white 
Stands  gleaming  like  a  pillar  of  the  night  ? 
The  lion  of  high  courts,  with  hoary  mane, 
Fierce  jester  that  this  boyish  court  will  gain  — 
Mark  Twain ! 


74  THE  RAFT 

The  bad  world's  idol : 
Old  Mark  Twain ! 

He  takes  his  turn  as  watchman  with  the  rest, 
With  secret  transports  to  the  stars  addressed, 
With  nightlong  broodings  upon  cosmic  law, 
With  daylong  laughter  at  this  world  so  raw. 

All  praise  to  Emerson  and  Whitman,  yet 
The  best  they  have  to  say,  their  sons  forget. 
But  who  can  dodge  this  genius  of  the  stream, 
The  Mississippi  Valley's  laughing  dream  ? 
He  is  the  artery  that  finds  the  sea 
In  this  the  land  of  slaves,  and  boys  still  free. 
He  is  the  river,  and  they  one  and  all 
Sail  on  his  breast,  and  to  each  other  call. 

Come  let  us  disgrace  ourselves, 

Knock  the  stuffed  gods  from  their  shelves, 

And  cinders  at  the  schoolhouse  fling. 

Come  let  us  disgrace  ourselves, 

And  live  on  a  raft  with  gray  Mark  Twain 

And  Huck  and  Jim 

And  the  Duke  and  the  King. 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  THE  BUFFALOES  75 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  THE  BUFFALOES 

Would  I  might  rouse  the  Lincoln  in  you  all, 
That  which  is  gendered  in  the  wilderness 
From  lonely  prairies  and  God's  tenderness. 
Imperial  soul,  star  of  a  weedy  stream, 
Born  where  the  ghosts  of  buffaloes  still  dream, 
Whose  spirit  hoof-beats  storm  above  his  grave, 
Above  that  breast  of  earth  and  prairie-fire  — 
Fire  that  freed  the  slave. 


Last  night  at  black  midnight  I  woke  with  a  cry, 

The  windows  were  shaking,  there  was  thunder  on  high, 

The  floor  was  a-tremble,  the  door  was  a-jar, 

White  fires,  crimson  fires,  shone  from  afar. 

I  rushed  to  the  door  yard.     The  city  was  gone. 

My  home  was  a  hut  without  orchard  or  lawn. 

It  was  mud-smear  and  logs  near  a  whispering  stream, 

Nothing  else  built  by  man  could  I  see  in  my  dream  .  . 

Then  . 


76  THE  GHOSTS  OF  THE  BUFFALOES 

Ghost-kings  came  headlong,  row  upon  row, 
Gods  of  the  Indians,  torches  aglow. 

They  mounted  the  bear  and  the  elk  and  the  deer, 

And  eagles  gigantic,  aged  and  sere, 

They  rode  long-horn  cattle,  they  cried  "A-la-la." 

They  lifted  the  knife,  the  bow,  and  the  spear, 

They  lifted  ghost-torches  from  dead  fires  below, 

The  midnight  made  grand  with  the  cry  "A-la-la." 

The  midnight  made  grand  with  a  red-god  charge, 

A  red-god  show, 

A  red-god  show, 

"A-la-la,  a-la-la,  a-la-la,  a-la-la." 

With  bodies  like  bronze,  and  terrible  eyes 

Came  the  rank  and  the  file,  with  catamount  cries, 

Gibbering,  yipping,  with  hollow-skull  clacks, 

Riding  white  bronchos  with  skeleton  backs, 

Scalp-hunters,  beaded  and  spangled  and  bad, 

Naked  and  lustful  and  foaming  and  mad, 

Flashing  primeval  demoniac  scorn, 

Blood-thirst  and  pomp  amid  darkness  reborn, 

Power  and  glory  that  sleep  in  the  grass 

While  the  winds  and  the  snows  and  the  great  rains  pass. 

They  crossed  the  gray  river,  thousands  abreast, 

They  rode  in  infinite  lines  to  the  west, 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  THE  BUFFALOES  77 

Tide  upon  tide  of  strange  fury  and  foam, 

Spirits  and  wraiths,  the  blue  was  their  home, 

The  sky  was  their  goal  where  the  star-flags  are  furled, 

And  on  past  those  far  golden  splendors  they  whirled. 

They  burned  to  dim  meteors,  lost  in  the  deep. 

And  I  turned  in  dazed  wonder,  thinking  of  sleep. 

And  the  wind  crept  by 

Alone,  unkempt,  unsatisfied, 

The  wind  cried  and  cried  — 

Muttered  of  massacres  long  past, 

Buffaloes  in  shambles  vast  .  .  . 

An  owl  said  :  "Hark,  what  is  a-wing?" 

I  heard  a  cricket  carolling, 

I  heard  a  cricket  carolling, 

I  heard  a  cricket  carolling. 

Then  .  .  . 

Snuffing  the  lightning  that  crashed  from  on  high 

Rose  royal  old  buffaloes,  row  upon  row. 

The  lords  of  the  prairie  came  galloping  by. 

And  I  cried  in  my  heart  "A-la-la,  a-la-la, 

A  red-god  show, 

A  red-god  show, 

A-la-la,  a-la-la,  a-la-la,  a-la-la." 


78  THE  GHOSTS  OF  THE  BUFFALOES 

Buffaloes,  buffaloes,  thousands  abreast, 

A  scourge  and  amazement,  they  swept  to  the  west. 

With  black  bobbing  noses,  with  red  rolling  tongues, 

Coughing  forth  steam  from  their  leather-wrapped  lungs, 

Cows  with  their  calves,  bulls  big  and  vain, 

Goring  the  laggards,  shaking  the  mane, 

Stamping  flint  feet,  flashing  moon  eyes, 

Pompous  and  owlish,  shaggy  and  wise. 

Like  sea-cliffs  and  caves  resounded  their  ranks 

With  shoulders  like  waves,  and  undulant  flanks. 

Tide  upon  tide  of  strange  fury  and  foam, 

Spirits  and  wraiths,  the  blue  was  their  home, 

The  sky  was  their  goal  where  the  star-flags  are  furled, 

And  on  past  those  far  golden  splendors  they  whirled. 

They  burned  to  dim  meteors,  lost  in  the  deep, 

And  I  turned  in  dazed  wonder,  thinking  of  sleep. 

I  heard  a  cricket's  cymbals  play, 
A  scarecrow  lightly  flapped  his  rags, 
And  a  pan  that  hung  by  his  shoulder  rang, 
Rattled  and  thumped  in  a  listless  way, 
And  now  the  wind  in  the  chimney  sang, 
The  wind  in  the  chimney, 
The  wind  in  the  chimney, 
The  wind  in  the  chimney, 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  THE  BUFFALOES  79 

Seemed  to  say  :  — 

"Dream,  boy,  dream, 

If  you  anywise  can. 

To  dream  is  the  work 

Of  beast  or  man. 

Life  is  the  west-going  dream-storm's  breath, 

Life  is  a  dream,  the  sigh  of  the  skies, 

The  breath  of  the  stars,  that  nod  on  their  pillows 

With  their  golden  hair  mussed  over  their  eyes." 

The  locust  played  on  his  musical  wing, 

Sang  to  his  mate  of  love's  delight. 

I  heard  the  whippoorwill's  soft  fret. 

I  heard  a  cricket  carolling, 

I  heard  a  cricket  carolling, 

I  heard  a  cricket  say  :  "  Good-night,  good-night, 

Good-night,  good-night,  .  .  .  good-night." 


80   THE  BRONCHO  THAT  WOULD  NOT  BE  BROKEN 


THE  BRONCHO  THAT  WOULD  NOT  BE  BROKEN 

A  little  colt  —  broncho,  loaned  to  the  farm 
To  be  broken  in  time  without  fury  or  harm, 
Yet  black  crows  flew  past  you,  shouting  alarm, 
Calling  "Beware,"  with  lugubrious  singing  .  .  . 
The  butterflies  there  in  the  bush  were  romancing, 
The  smell  of  the  grass  caught  your  soul  in  a  trance, 
So  why  be  a-fearing  the  spurs  and  the  traces, 
O  broncho  that  would  not  be  broken  of  dancing  ? 

You  were  born  with  the  pride  of  the  lords  great  and  olden 
Who  danced,  through  the  ages,  in  corridors  golden. 
In  all  the  wide  farm-place  the  person  most  human. 
You  spoke  out  so  plainly  with  squealing  and  capering, 
With  whinnying,  snorting,  contorting  and  prancing, 
As  you  dodged  your  pursuers,  looking  askance, 
With  Greek-footed  figures,  and  Parthenon  paces, 
O  broncho  that  would  not  be  broken  of  dancing. 

The  grasshoppers  cheered.     "Keep  whirling,"  they  said. 

The  insolent  sparrows  called  from  the  shed 

"If  men  will  not  laugh,  make  them  wish  they  were  dead." 


THE  BRONCHO  THAT  WOULD  NOT  BE  BROKEN  81 

But  arch  were  your  thoughts,  all  malice  displacing, 
Though  the  horse-killers  came,  with  snake- whips  advancing. 
You  bantered  and  cantered  away  your  last  chance. 
And  they  scourged  you,  with  Hell  in  their  speech  and  their 

faces, 
O  broncho  that  would  not  be  broken  of  dancing. 

"Nobody  cares  for  you,"  rattled  the  crows, 
As  you  dragged  the  whole  reaper,  next  day,  down  the  rows. 
The  three  mules  held  back,  yet  you  danced  on  your  toes. 
You  pulled  like  a  racer,  and  kept  the  mules  chasing. 
You  tangled  the  harness  with  bright  eyes  side-glancing, 
While  the  drunk  driver  bled  you  —  a  pole  for  a  lance  — 
And  the  giant  mules  bit  at  you  —  keeping  their  places. 
O  broncho  that  would  not  be  broken  of  dancing. 

In  that  last  afternoon  your  boyish  heart  broke. 

The  hot  wind  came  down  like  a  sledge-hammer  stroke. 

The  blood-sucking  flies  to  a  rare  feast  awoke. 

And  they  searched  out  your  wounds,  your  death-warrant 

tracing. 

And  the  merciful  men,  their  religion  enhancing, 
Stopped  the  red  reaper,  to  give  you  a  chance. 
Then  you  died  on  the  prairie,  and  scorned  all  disgraces, 
O  broncho  that  would  not  be  broken  of  dancing. 

SOUVENIR  OF  GREAT  BEND,  KANSAS. 


82  THE  PRAIRIE  BATTLEMENTS 


THE  PRAIRIE  BATTLEMENTS 

(To  Edgar  Lee  Masters,  with  great  respect.) 

Here  upon  the  prairie 

Is  our  ancestral  hall. 

Agate  is  the  dome, 

Cornelian  the  wall. 

Ghouls  are  in  the  cellar, 

But  fays  upon  the  stairs. 

And  here  lived  old  King  Silver  Dreams, 

Always  at  his  prayers. 

Here  lived  grey  Queen  Silver  Dreams, 

Always  singing  psalms, 

And  haughty  Grandma  Silver  Dreams, 

Throned  with  folded  palms. 

Here  played  cousin  Alice. 

Her  soul  was  best  of  all. 

And  every  fairy  loved  her, 

In  our  ancestral  hall. 

Alice  has  a  prairie  grave. 
The  King  and  Queen  lie  low, 


THE  PRAIRIE  BATTLEMENTS  83 

And  aged  Grandma  Silver  Dreams, 
Four  tombstones  in  a  row. 
But  still  in  snow  and  sunshine 
Stands  our  ancestral  hall. 
Agate  is  the  dome, 
Cornelian  the  wall. 
And  legends  walk  about, 
And  proverbs,  with  proud  airs. 
Ghouls  are  in  the  cellar, 
But  fays  upon  the  stairs. 


84 


THE  FLOWER  OF  MENDING 

(To  Eudora,  after  I  had  had  certain  dire  adventures.) 

When  Dragon-fly  would  fix  his  wings, 
When  Snail  would  patch  his  house, 
When  moths  have  marred  the  overcoat 
Of  tender  Mister  Mouse, 

The  pretty  creatures  go  with  haste 

To  the  sunlit  blue-grass  hills 

Where  the  Flower  of  Mending  yields  the  wax 

And  webs  to  help  their  ills. 

The  hour  the  coats  are  waxed  and  webbed 
They  fall  into  a  dream, 
And  when  they  wake  the  ragged  robes 
Are  joined  without  a  seam. 

My  heart  is  but  a  dragon-fly, 
My  heart  is  but  a  mouse, 
My  heart  is  but  a  haughty  snail 
In  a  little  stony  house. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  MENDING  85 

Your  hand  was  honey-comb  to  heal, 
Your  voice  a  web  to  bind. 
You  were  a  Mending  Flower  to  me 
To  cure  my  heart  and  mind. 


86     ALONE  IN  THE  WIND,  ON  THE  PRAIRIE 


ALONE  IN  THE  WIND,  ON  THE  PRAIRIE 

I  know  a  seraph  who  has  golden  eyes, 
And  hair  of  gold,  and  body  like  the  snow. 
Here  in  the  wind  I  dream  her  unbound  hair 
Is  blowing  round  me,  that  desire's  sweet  glow 
Has  touched  her  pale  keen  face,  and  willful  mien. 
And  though  she  steps  as  one  in  manner  born 
To  tread  the  forests  of  fair  Paradise, 
Dark  memory's  wood  she  chooses  to  adorn. 
Here  with  bowed  head,  bashful  with  half -desire 
She  glides  into  my  yesterday's  deep  dream, 
All  glowing  by  the  misty  ferny  cliff 
Beside  the  far  forbidden  thundering  stream. 
Within  my  dream  I  shake  with  the  old  flood. 
I  fear  its  going,  ere  the  spring  days  go. 
Yet  pray  the  glory  may  have  deathless  years, 
And  kiss  her  hair,  and  sweet  throat  like  the  snow. 


TO  LADY  JANE  87 


TO  LADY  JANE 

Romance  was  always  young. 

You  come  today 

Just  eight  years  old 

With  marvellous  dark  hair. 

Younger  than  Dante  found  you 

When  you  turned 

His  heart  into  the  way 

That  found  the  heavenly  stair. 

Perhaps  we  must  be  strangers. 

I  confess 

My  soul  this  hour  is  Dante's, 

And  your  care 

Should  be  for  dolls 

Whose  painted  hands  caress 

Your  marvellous  dark  hair. 

Romance,  with  moonflower  face 

And  morning  eyes, 

And  lips  whose  thread  of  scarlet  prophesies 

The  canticles  of  a  coming  king  unknown, 


88  TO  LADY  JANE 

Remember,  when  you  join  him 

On  his  throne, 

Even  me,  your  far  off  troubadour, 

And  wear 

For  me  some  trifling  rose 

Beneath  your  veil, 

Dying  a  royal  death, 

Happy  and  pale, 

Choked  by  the  passion, 

The  wonder  and  the  snare, 

The  glory  and  despair 

That  still  will  haunt  and  own 

Your  marvellous  dark  hair. 


HOW  I  WALKED  ALONE  IN  HEAVEN         89 


HOW  I  WALKED  ALONE  IN  THE  JUNGLES  OF 
HEAVEN 

Oh,  once  I  walked  in  Heaven,  all  alone 
Upon  the  sacred  cliffs  above  the  sky. 
God  and  the  angels,  and  the  gleaming  saints 
Had  journeyed  out  into  the  stars  to  die. 

They  had  gone  forth  to  win  far  citizens, 
Bought  at  great  price,  bring  happiness  for  all : 
By  such  a  harvest  make  a  holier  town 
And  put  new  life  within  old  Zion's  wall. 

Each  chose  a  far-off  planet  for  his  home, 

Speaking  of  love  and  mercy,  truth  and  right, 

Envied  and  cursed,  thorn-crowned  and  scourged  in  time, 

Each  tasted  death  on  his  appointed  night. 

Then  resurrection  day  from  sphere  to  sphere 
Sped  on,  with  all  the  POWERS  arisen  again, 
While  with  them  came  in  clouds  recruited  hosts 
Of  sun-born  strangers  and  of  earth-born  men. 


90    HOW  I  WALKED  ALONE  IN  HEAVEN 

And  on  that  day  gray  prophet  saints  went  down 
And  poured  atoning  blood  upon  the  deep, 
Till  every  warrior  of  old  Hell  flew  free 
And  all  the  torture  fires  were  laid  asleep. 

And  Hell's  lost  company  I  saw  return 
Clear-eyed,  with  plumes  of  white,  the  demons  bold 
Climbed  with  the  angels  now  on  Jacob's  stair, 
And  built  a  better  Zion  than  the  old. 


And  yet  I  walked  alone  on  azure  cliffs 
A  lifetime  long,  and  loved  each  untrimmed  vine : 
The  rotted  harps,  the  swords  of  rusted  gold, 
The  jungles  of  all  Heaven  then  were  mine. 

Oh  mesas  and  throne-mountains  that  I  found  ! 

Oh  strange  and  shaking  thoughts  that  touched  me  there, 

Ere  I  beheld  the  bright  returning  wings 

That  came  to  spoil  my  secret,  silent  lair ! 


FIFTH  SECTION 
THE  POEM  GAMES 


91 


THE  POEM  GAMES 

In  the  summer  of  1916  in  the  parlor  of  Mrs.  William 
Vaughn  Moody;  and  in  the  following  winter  in  the 
Chicago  Little  Theatre,  under  the  auspices  of  Poetry, 
A  Magazine  of  Verse  ;  and  in  Mandel  Hall,  the  University 
of  Chicago,  under  the  auspices  of  the  Senior  Class,  — 
these  Poem  Games  were  presented.  Miss  Eleanor 
Dougherty  was  the  dancer  throughout.  The  entire 
undertaking  developed  through  the  generous  cooperation 
and  advice  of  Mrs.  William  Vaughn  Moody.  The  writer 
is  exceedingly  grateful  to  Mrs.  Moody  and  all  concerned 
for  making  place  for  the  idea.  Now  comes  the  test  of  its 
vitality.  Can  it  go  on  in  the  absence  of  its  initiators? 

Mr.  Lewellyn  Jones,  of  the  Chicago  Evening  Post, 
announced  the  affair  as  a  "rhythmic  picnic."  Mr.  Maurice 
Browne  of  the  Chicago  Little  Theatre  said  Miss  Dougherty 
was  at  the  beginning  of  the  old  Greek  Tragic  Dance. 
Somewhere  between  lies  the  accomplishment. 

In  the  Congo  volume,  as  is  indicated  in  the  margins, 
the  meaning  of  a  few  of  the  verses  is  aided  by  chanting. 
In  the  Poem  Games  the  English  word  is  still  first  in 
importance,  the  dancer  comes  second,  the  chanter  third. 

93 


94  THE  POEM  GAMES 

The  marginal  directions  of  King  Solomon  indicate  the 
spirit  in  which  all  the  pantomime  was  developed.  Miss 
Dougherty  designed  her  own  costumes,  and  worked  out 
her  own  stage  business  for  King  Solomon,  The  Potatoes' 
Dance,  The  King  of  Yellow  Butterflies  and  Aladdin  and 
the  Jinn  (The  Congo,  page  140).  In  the  last,  "'I  am 
your  slave,'  said  the  Jinn"  was  repeated  four  times  at  the 
end  of  each  stanza. 

The  Poem  Game  idea  was  first  indorsed  in  the  Wellesley 
kindergarten,  by  the  children.  They  improvised  panto 
mime  and  dance  for  the  Potatoes'  Dance,  while  the  writer 
chanted  it,  and  while  Professor  Hamilton  C.  Macdougall  of 
the  Wellesley  musical  department  followed  on  the  piano 
the  outline  of  the  jingle.  Later  Professor  Macdougall 
very  kindly  wrote  down  his  piano  rendition.  A  study  of 
this  transcript  helps  to  confirm  the  idea  that  when  the 
cadences  of  a  bit  of  verse  are  a  little  exaggerated,  they  are 
tunes,  yet  of  a  truth  they  are  tunes  which  can  be  but 
vaguely  recorded  by  notation  or  expressed  by  an  instru 
ment.  The  author  of  this  book  is  now  against  instru 
mental  music  in  this  type  of  work.  It  blurs  the  English. 

Professor  Macdougall  has  in  various  conversations 
helped  the  author  toward  a  Poem  Game  theory.  He  agrees 
that  neither  the  dancing  nor  the  chanting  nor  any  other 
thing  should  be  allowed  to  run  away  with  the  original 


THE  POEM  GAMES  95 

intention  of  the  words.  The  chanting  should  not  be 
carried  to  the  point  where  it  seeks  to  rival  conventional 
musical  composition.  The  dancer  should  be  subordinated 
to  the  natural  rhythms  of  English  speech,  and  not  attempt 
to  incorporate  bodily  all  the  precedents  of  professional 
dancing. 

Speaking  generally,  poetic  ideas  can  be  conveyed  word 
by  word,  faster  than  musical  feeling.  The  repetitions  in 
the  Poem  Games  are  to  keep  the  singing,  the  dancing  and 
the  ideas  at  one  pace.  The  repetitions  may  be  varied 
according  to  the  necessities  of  the  individual  dancer. 
Dancing  is  slower  than  poetry  and  faster  than  music  in 
developing  the  same  thoughts.  In  folk  dances  and 
vaudeville,  the  verse,  music,  and  dancing  are  on  so  simple 
a  basis  the  time  elements  can  be  easily  combined.  Like 
wise  the  rhythms  and  the  other  elements. 

Miss  Dougherty  is  particularly  illustrative  in  her  pan 
tomime,  but  there  were  many  verses  she  looked  over  and 
rejected  because  they  could  not  be  rendered  without 
blurring  the  original  intent.  Possibly  every  poem  in  the 
world  has  its  dancer  somewhere  waiting,  who  can  dance 
but  that  one  poem.  Certainly  those  poems  would  be  most 
successful  in  games,  where  the  tone  color  is  so  close  to  the 
meaning  that  any  exaggeration  of  that  color  by  dancing 
and  chanting  only  makes  the  story  clearer.  The  writer 


96  THE  POEM  GAMES 

would  like  to  see  some  one  try  Dryden's  Alexander's 
Feast,  or  Swinburne's  Atalanta  in  Calydon.  Certainly  in 
those  poems  the  decorative  rhythm  and  the  meaning  are 
absolutely  one. 

With  no  dancing  evolutions,  the  author  of  this  book  has 
chanted  John  Brown  and  King  Solomon  for  the  last  two 
years  for  many  audiences.  It  took  but  a  minute  to  teach 
the  people  the  responses.  As  a  rule  they  had  no  advance 
notice  they  were  going  to  sing.  The  versifier  sang  the 
parts  of  the  King  and  Queen  in  turn,  and  found  each  au 
dience  perfectly  willing  to  be  the  oxen,  the  sweethearts, 
the  swans,  the  sons,  the  shepherds,  etc. 

A  year  ago  the  writer  had  the  honor  of  chanting  for  the 
Florence  Fleming  Noyes  school  of  dancers.  In  one  short 
evening  they  made  the  first  section  of  the  Congo  into  an 
incantation,  the  King  Solomon  into  an  extraordinarily 
graceful  series  of  tableaus,  and  the  Potatoes'  Dance  into  a 
veritable  whirlwind.  Later  came  the  more  elaborately 
prepared  Chicago  experiment. 

In  the  King  of  Yellow  Butterflies  and  the  Potatoes' 
Dance  Miss  Dougherty  occupied  the  entire  eye  of  the 
audience  and  interpreted,  while  the  versifier  chanted  the 
poems  as  a  semi-invisible  orchestra,  by  the  side  of  the 
curtain.  For  Aladdin  and  for  King  Solomon  Miss 
Dougherty  and  the  writer  divided  the  stage  between  them, 


THE  POEM  GAMES  97 

but  the  author  was  little  more  than  the  orchestra.  The 
main  intention  was  carried  out,  which  was  to  combine  the 
work  of  the  dancer  with  the  words  of  the  production  and 
the  responses  of  the  audience. 

The  present  rhymer  has  no  ambitions  as  a  stage  manager. 
The  Poem  Game  idea,  in  its  rhythmic  picnic  stage,  is  rec 
ommended  to  amateurs,  its  further  development  to  be 
on  their  own  initiative.  Informal  parties  might  divide 
into  groups  of  dancers  and  groups  of  chanters.  The  whole 
might  be  worked  out  in  the  spirit  in  which  children  play 
King  William  was  King  James'  Son,  London  Bridge,  or 
As  We  Go  Round  the  Mulberry  Bush.  And  the  author 
of  this  book  would  certainly  welcome  the  tragic  dance,  if 
Miss  Dougherty  will  gather  a  company  about  her  and  go 
forward,  using  any  acceptable  poems,  new  or  old. 
Swinburne's  Atalanta  in  Calydon  is  perhaps  the  most 
literal  and  rhythmic  example  of  the  idea  we  have  in  Eng 
lish,  though  it  may  not  be  available  when  tried  out. 

The  main  revolution  necessary  for  dancing  improvisers, 
who  would  go  a  longer  way  with  the  Poem  Game  idea,  is 
to  shake  off  the  Isadora  Duncan  and  the  Russian  prece 
dents  for  a  while,  and  abolish  the  orchestra  and  piano, 
replacing  all  these  with  the  natural  meaning  and  cadences 
of  English  speech.  The  work  would  come  closer  to  acting, 
than  dancing  is  now  conceived. 


98        THE  KING  OF  YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES 


(A  Poem  Game.) 

The  King  of  Yellow  Butterflies, 

The  King  of  Yellow  Butterflies, 

The  King  of  Yellow  Butterflies, 

Now  orders  forth  his  men. 

He  says  "The  time  is  almost  here 

When  violets  bloom  again." 

Adown  the  road  the  fickle  rout 

Goes  flashing  proud  and  bold, 

Adown  the  road  the  fickle  rout 

Goes  flashing  proud  and  bold, 

Adown  the  road  the  fickle  rout 

Goes  flashing  proud  and  bold, 

They  shiver  by  the  shallow  pools, 

They  shiver  by  the  shallow  pools, 

They  shiver  by  the  shallow  pools, 

And  whimper  of  the  cold. 

They  drink  and  drink.     A  frail  pretense ! 

They  love  to  pose  and  preen. 


THE  KING  OF  YELLOW  BUTTERFLIES         99 

Each  pool  is  but  a  looking  glass, 

Where  their  sweet  wings  are  seen. 

Each  pool  is  but  a  looking  glass, 

Where  their  sweet  wings  are  seen. 

Each  pool  is  but  a  looking  glass, 

Where  their  sweet  wings  are  seen. 

Gentlemen  adventurers  !     Gypsies  every  whit ! 

They  live  on  what  they  steal.     Their  wings 

By  briars  are  frayed  a  bit. 

Their  loves  are  light.     They  have  no  house. 

And  if  it  rains  today, 

They'll  climb  into  your  cattle-shed, 

They'll  climb  into  your  cattle-shed, 

They'll  climb  into  your  cattle-shed, 

And  hide  them  in  the  hay, 

And  hide  them  in  the  hay, 

And  hide  them  in  the  hay, 

And  hide  them  in  the  hay. 


100  THE  POTATOES'  DANCE 


THE  POTATOES'  DANCE 

(A  Poem  Game.) 


"Down  cellar,"  said  the  cricket, 
"Down  cellar,"  said  the  cricket, 
"Down  cellar,"  said  the  cricket, 
"I  saw  a  ball  last  night, 
In  honor  of  a  lady, 
In  honor  of  a  lady, 
In  honor  of  a  lady, 
Whose  wings  were  pearly-white. 
The  breath  of  bitter  weather, 
The  breath  of  bitter  weather, 
The  breath  of  bitter  weather, 
Had  smashed  the  cellar  pane. 
We  entertained  a  drift  of  leaves, 
We  entertained  a  drift  of  leaves, 
We  entertained  a  drift  of  leaves, 
And  then  of  snow  and  rain. 
But  we  were  dressed  for  winter, 


THE  POTATOES'  DANCE  101 

But  we  were  dressed  for  winter, 

But  we  were  dressed  for  winter, 

And  loved  to  hear  it  blow 

In  honor  of  the  lady, 

In  honor  of  the  lady, 

In  honor  of  the  lady, 

Who  makes  potatoes  grow, 

Our  guest  the  Irish  lady, 

The  tiny  Irish  lady, 

The  airy  Irish  lady, 

Who  makes  potatoes  grow. 

ii 

"Potatoes  were  the  waiters, 
Potatoes  were  the  waiters, 
Potatoes  were  the  waiters, 
Potatoes  were  the  band, 
Potatoes  were  the  dancers 
Kicking  up  the  sand, 
Kicking  up  the  sand, 
Kicking  up  the  sand, 
Potatoes  were  the  dancers 
Kicking  up  the  sand. 
Their  legs  were  old  burnt  matches, 
Their  legs  were  old  burnt  matches, 


102  THE  POTATOES'  DANCE 

Their  legs  were  old  burnt  matches, 

Their  arms  were  just  the  same. 

They  jigged  and  whirled  and  scrambled, 

Jigged  and  whirled  and  scrambled, 

Jigged  and  whirled  and  scrambled, 

In  honor  of  the  dame, 

The  noble  Irish  lady 

Who  makes  potatoes  dance, 

The  witty  Irish  lady, 

The  saucy  Irish  lady, 

The  laughing  Irish  lady 

Who  makes  potatoes  prance. 

in 

"There  was  just  one  sweet  potato. 
He  was  golden  brown  and  slim. 
The  lady  loved  his  dancing, 
The  lady  loved  his  dancing, 
The  lady  loved  his  dancing, 
She  danced  all  night  with  him, 
She  danced  all  night  with  him. 
Alas,  he  wasn't  Irish. 
So  when  she  flew  away, 
They  threw  him  in  the  coal-bin, 
And  there  he  is  today, 


THE  POTATOES'  DANCE  103 

Where  they  cannot  hear  his  sighs 

And  his  weeping  for  the  lady, 

The  glorious  Irish  lady, 

The  beauteous  Irish  lady, 

Who 

Gives 

Potatoes 

Eyes." 


104      THE  BOOKER  WASHINGTON  TRILOGY 


THE  BOOKER  WASHINGTON  TRILOGY 
A  MEMORIAL  TO  BOOKER  T.  WASHINGTON 

I.   A  NEGRO  SERMON  :  —  SIMON  LEGREE 
(To  be  read  in  your  own  variety  of  negro  dialect.) 

Legree's  big  house  was  white  and  green. 

His  cotton-fields  were  the  best  to  be  seen. 

He  had  strong  horses  and  opulent  cattle, 

And  bloodhounds  bold,  with  chains  that  would  rattle. 

His  garret  was  full  of  curious  things  : 

Books  of  magic,  bags  of  gold, 

And  rabbits'  feet  on  long  twine  strings. 

But  he  went  down  to  the  Devil. 

Legree  he  sported  a  brass-buttoned  coat, 

A  snake-skin  necktie,  a  blood-red  shirt. 

Legree  he  had  a  beard  like  a  goat, 

And  a  thick  hairy  neck,  and  eyes  like  dirt. 

His  puffed-out  cheeks  were  fish-belly  white, 

He  had  great  long  teeth,  and  an  appetite. 

He  ate  raw  meat,  'most  every  meal, 

And  rolled  his  eyes  till  the  cat  would  squeal. 


THE  BOOKER  WASHINGTON  TRILOGY       105 

His  fist  was  an  enormous  size 
To  mash  poor  niggers  that  told  him  lies : 
He  was  surely  a  witch-man  in  disguise. 
But  he  went  down  to  the  Devil. 

He  wore  hip-boots,  and  would  wade  all  day 
To  capture  his  slaves  that  had  fled  away. 
But  he  went  down  to  the  Devil. 

He  beat  poor  Uncle  Tom  to  death 

Who  prayed  for  Legree  with  his  last  breath. 

Then  Uncle  Tom  to  Eva  flew, 

To  the  high  sanctoriums  bright  and  new ; 

And  Simon  Legree  stared  up  beneath, 

And  cracked  his  heels,  and  ground  his  teeth : 

And  went  down  to  the  Devil. 

He  crossed  the  yard  in  the  storm  and  gloom ; 
He  went  into  his  grand  front  room. 
He  said,  "I  killed  him,  and  I  don't  care." 
He  kicked  a  hound,  he  gave  a  swear ; 
He  tightened  his  belt,  he  took  a  lamp, 
Went  down  cellar  to  the  webs  and  damp. 
There  in  the  middle  of  the  mouldy  floor 
He  heaved  up  a  slab,  he  found  a  door  — 
And  went  down  to  the  Devil. 


106      THE  BOOKER  WASHINGTON  TRILOGY 

His  lamp  blew  out,  but  his  eyes  burned  bright. 

Simon  Legree  stepped  down  all  night  — 

Down,  down  to  the  Devil. 

Simon  Legree  he  reached  the  place, 

He  saw  one  half  of  the  human  race, 

He  saw  the  Devil  on  a  wide  green  throne, 

Gnawing  the  meat  from  a  big  ham-bone, 

And  he  said  to  Mister  Devil : 

"  I  see  that  you  have  much  to  eat  — 
A  red  ham-bone  is  surely  sweet. 
I  see  that  you  have  lion's  feet ; 
I  see  your  frame  is  fat  and  fine, 
I  see  you  drink  your  poison  wine  — 
Blood  and  burning  turpentine." 

And  the  Devil  said  to  Simon  Legree : 
"  I  like  your  style,  so  wicked  and  free. " 
Come  sit  and  share  my  throne  with  me, 
And  let  us  bark  and  revel." 
And  there  they  sit  and  gnash  their  teeth, 
And  each  one  wears  a  hop- vine  wreath. 
They  are  matching  pennies  and  shooting  craps, 
They  are  playing  poker  and  taking  naps. 
And  old  Legree  is  fat  and  fine : 


THE  BOOKER  WASHINGTON  TRILOGY      107 

He  eats  the  fire,  he  drinks  the  wine  — 
Blood  and  burning  turpentine  — 
Down,  down  with  the  Devil; 
Down,  down  with  the  Devil; 
Down,  down  with  the  Devil. 


108  JOHN  BROWN 


II 

JOHN  BROWN 

(To  be  sung  by  a  leader  and  chorus,  the  leader  singing 
the  body  of  the  poem,  while  the  chorus  interrupts  with 
the  question.) 

I've  been  to  Palestine. 

What  did  you  see  in  Palestine  ? 
I  saw  the  ark  of  Noah  — 
It  was  made  of  pitch  and  pine. 
I  saw  old  Father  Noah 
Asleep  beneath  his  vine. 
I  saw  Shem,  Ham  and  Japhet 
Standing  in  a  line. 
I  saw  the  tower  of  Babel 
In  the  gorgeous  sunrise  shine  — 
By  a  weeping  willow  tree 
Beside  the  Dead  Sea. 

I've  been  to  Palestine. 

What  did  you  see  in  Palestine  ? 
I  saw  abominations 
And  Gadarene  swine. 


JOHN  BROWN  109 

I  saw  the  sinful  Canaanites 
Upon  the  shewbread  dine, 
And  spoil  the  temple  vessels 
And  drink  the  temple  wine. 
I  saw  Lot's  wife,  a  pillar  of  salt 
Standing  in  the  brine  — 
By  a  weeping  willow  tree 
Beside  the  Dead  Sea. 

I've  been  to  Palestine. 

What  did  you  see  in  Palestine  ? 
Cedars  on  Mount  Lebanon, 
Gold  in  Ophir's  mine, 
And  a  wicked  generation 
Seeking  for  a  sign 
And  Baal's  howling  worshippers 
Their  god  with  leaves  entwine. 
And  ... 

I  saw  the  war-horse  ramping 
And  shake  his  forelock  fine  — • 
By  a  weeping  willow  tree 
Beside  the  Dead  Sea. 

I've  been  to  Palestine. 

What  did  you  see  in  Palestine  f 


JOHN  BROWN 

Old  John  Brown. 

Old  John  Brown. 

I  saw  his  gracious  wife 

Dressed  in  a  homespun  gown. 

I  saw  his  seven  sons 

Before  his  feet  bow  down. 

And  he  marched  with  his  seven  sons, 

His  wagons  and  goods  and  guns, 

To  his  campfire  by  the  sea, 

By  the  waves  of  Galilee. 

I've  been  to  Palestine. 

What  did  you  see  in  Palestine? 
I  saw  the  harp  and  psalt'ry 
Played  for  Old  John  Brown. 
I  heard  the  ram's  horn  blow, 
Blow  for  Old  John  Brown. 
I  saw  the  Bulls  of  Bashan  — 
They  cheered  for  Old  John  Brown. 
I  saw  the  big  Behemoth  — 
He  cheered  for  Old  John  Brown. 
I  saw  the  big  Leviathan  — 
He  cheered  for  Old  John  Brown. 
I  saw  the  Angel  Gabriel 
Great  power  to  him  assign. 


JOHN  BROWN  111 

I  saw  him  fight  the  Canaanites 
And  set  God's  Israel  free. 
I  saw  him  when  the  war  was  done 
In  his  rustic  chair  recline  — 
By  his  camp-fire  by  the  sea, 
By  the  waves  of  Galilee. 

I've  been  to  Palestine. 

What  did  you  see  in  Palestine  ? 
Old  John  Brown. 
Old  John  Brown. 
And  there  he  sits 
To  judge  the  world. 
His  hunting-dogs 
At  his  feet  are  curled. 
His  eyes  half -closed, 
But  John  Brown  sees 
The  ends  of  the  earth, 
The  Day  of  Doom. 
And  his  shot-gun  lies 
Across  his  knees  — 
Old  John  Brown, 
Old  John  Brown. 


112     KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  QUEEN  OF  SHEBA 


III 

KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  QUEEN  OP 
SHEBA 

(A  Poem  Game.) 

"And  when  the  Queen  of  Sheba  heard  of 
the  fame  of  Solomon,  .  .  .  she  came  to 
prove  him  with  hard  questions." 


MEN'S  LEADER  : 


WOMEN'S  LEADER 


BOTH  LEADERS 


The  Queen  of  Sheba 
came  to  see  King 
Solomon. 

I  was  King  Solomon, 
I  was  King  Solomon, 
I  was  King  Solomon. 

I  was  the  Queen, 
I  was  the  Queen, 
I  was  the  Queen. 

We  will  be  king  and 
queen, 

Reigning  on  moun 
tains  green, 

Happy  and  free 


The  men's 
leader  rises  as 
he  sees  the 
Queen  unveiling 
and  approach 
ing  a  position 
that  gives  her 
half  of  the  stage. 


He  bows  three 
times. 


She  bows  three 
times. 


They  stand  to 
gether  stretching 
their  hands  over 
the  land. 


KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  QUEEN  OF  SHEBA     113 

thousand 


BOTH  LEADERS: 


CONGREGATION  : 


For      ten 
years. 


King  Solomon  he  had    They  stagger 
forward  as 


four  hundred  oxen. 


We  were  the  oxen. 


though  carrying 
a  yoke  together. 


BOTH  LEADERS  :         You  shall  feel  goads  Here  King  and 

Queen  pause  at 
no  more.  the  footlights. 

Walk    dreadful    roads    They  walk  back 
ward,  throwing 

no  more,  o/ the  yoke  and 

Free  from  your  loads  rejoicing. 

For      ten      thousand 
years. 

BOTH  LEADERS  :         King  Solomon  he  had   The  men's 

»         111  leader  goes  for- 

four  hundred  sweet-  wardf  the 

hearts.  women's  leader 

dances  round 
him. 

CONGREGATION:          We   were   the   sweet-  Here  he  pauses 
,  at  the  footlights. 


BOTH  LEADERS 


You  shall  dance  round    He  walks  back 
ward.   Both  clap 
again,  their    hands    to 

You  shall  dance  round  the  ™asure. 


again, 


114     KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  QUEEN  OF  SHEBA 


BOTH  LEADERS 


CONGREGATION 


BOTH  LEADERS: 


Cymbals   shall   sound 

again, 
Cymbals   shall   sound 

again, 

Wildflowers  be  found   The  Queen 
For      ten      thousand 

years,  flowers. 

Wildflowers  be  found 
For      ten      thousand 
years. 


And  every  sweetheart  He  continues  to 

,      ,      „  ,          ,       ,    command  the 

had    four    hundred  congregation> 

swans.  the  woman  *° 

dance.    He  goes 
forward  to  the 
We  were  the  swans.       footlights. 


You  shall  spread  wings   The  King  walks 

backward. 
again, 

You  shall  spread  wings 
again, 

Fly  in  soft  rings  again,  Here  a  special 

-n,  „.     .  .        dance,  by  the 

Fly  in  soft  rings  again,  Queen.  ^^ 

Swim  by  cool  springs  flvw  in  circles- 
For      ten      thousand 


years, 


KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  QUEEN  OF  SHEBA     115 


MEN'S  LEADER  : 


WOMEN'S  LEADER 


MEN'S  LEADER  : 


Swim  by  cool  springs, 
For      ten      thousand 
years. 

King  Solomon, 
King  Solomon. 

The  Queen   of  Sheba 

asked    him    like    a 

lady, 

Bowing  most  politely : 
"  What      makes      the 

roses  bloom 
Over  the  mossy  tomb, 
Driving      away      the 

gloom 
Ten  thousand  years  ?  " 

King    Solomon    made 

answer  to  the  lady, 
Bowing  most  politely : 
"They  bloom  forever 

thinking     of     your 

beauty, 
Your  step  so  queenly 

and    your    eyes    so 

lovely. 


The  refrain 
"  King 

Solomon"  may 
be  intoned  by 
the  men's  leader 

whenever  it  is 
neededteenable 

the  women's 
leader  to  get  to 
her  starting 


likewise  used. 

They  bow  to 
each  other  — 
then  give  a  pan- 
tomime  indicat 
ing  a  great  rose 
garden. 


They  bow  and 
confer.     The 
Queen  reserved, 
but  taking 
cognizance. 
The  King 
wooing  with 
ornate  gestures 
of  respect,  and 
courtly  anima 
tion. 


116     KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  QUEEN  OF  SHEBA 

These  keep  the  roses 

fair, 
Young  and  without  a 

care, 
Making  so  sweet  the 

air, 
Ten  thousand  years." 


BOTH  LEADERS 


CONGREGATION 


BOTH  LEADERS 


BOTH  LEADERS 


King  Solomon  he  had 
four  hundred  sons. 

We  were  the  sons. 


Crowned       by       the 

throngs  again, 
You  shall  make  songs 

again, 

Singing  along 
For      ten      thousand 

years. 


The  two,  with 
a  manner  al 
most  a  cake 
walk,  go  for 
ward. 

On  this  line, 
King  and  Queen 
pause  before  the 
footlights. 

Pantomime  of 
crowning  the 
audience. 

On  this  line  they 
walk  backward, 
playing  great  im 
aginary  harps. 


He  gave  each  son  four    They  go  forward 
in  a  pony 

hundred      prancing  gMoptihen 
ponies.  stand  pawing. 


KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  QUEEN  OF  SHEBA     117 


CONGREGATION  : 
BOTH  LEADERS: 


MEN'S  LEADER 


WOMEN'S  LEADER 


We  were  the  ponies. 

You    shall     eat    hay 

again, 

In  forests  play  again, 
Rampage  and  neigh 
For      ten      thousand 

years. 

King  Solomon  he 
asked  the  Queen  of 
Sheba, 

Bowing  most  politely : 

"  What  makes  the  oak- 
tree  grow 

Hardy  in  sun  and 
snow, 

Never  by  wind 
brought  low 

Ten  thousand  years  ?  " 

The  Queen   of  Sheba 

answered  like  a  lady, 

Bowing  most  politely : 

"It     blooms     forever 

thinking     of     your 

wisdom, 


They  nod  their 
heads,  starting  to 
walk  backward. 

A  pony  dance 
by  both,  in 
circles. 


They  bow  to 
each  other, 
standing  so  that 
each  one  com 
mands  half  of 
the  stage. 


They  bow  to 
each  other, 
again,  with 
pantomime 
indicating  a 
Sorest. 


118     KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  QUEEN  OF  SHEBA 

Your  brave  heart  and 
the  way  you  rule 
your  kingdom. 

These  keep  the  oak 
secure, 

Weaving  its  leafy  lure, 

Dreaming  by  foun 
tains  pure 

Ten  thousand  years." 

BOTH  LEADERS  :         The  Queen  of  Sheba  They  go  to  the 

...  .         ,      ,   footlights  with  a 

had    four    hundred  saiiors>  iurch 


sailors. 


and  hitch. 


CONGREGATION  : 
BOTH  LEADERS: 


We  were  the  sailors.   The  King  and 
Queen  pause. 

You  shall  bring  spice 

and  ore 
Over  the  ocean's  floor,   They  walk  back- 

01  .  ward  with  slow 

Shipmates  once  more,    iong.armed  ges. 

For        ten        thousand    tures  indicating 
the  entire  hon- 
years.  zon  line. 


WOMEN'S  LEADER  :  The  Queen  of  Sheba 
asked  him  like  a 
lady, 


KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  QUEEN  OF  SHEBA  119 

Bowing  most  politely  :   They  bow  to 

each  other,  the 
Why   is   the   sea   so  queen  indicat. 

deep,  ™9  the  dePths 

of  the  sea. 

What    secret    does    it 

keep 
While  tides  a-roaring 

leap 
Ten  thousand  years  ?  " 


MEN'S  LEADER:  King  Solomon  made 
answer  to  the 
lady, 

Bowing  most  politely  :  They  bow  to 

„  .     each  other,  then 

"My  love  for  you  is  confer.  the 

like       the       Stormy    Q^en  reserved, 

but  taking 
ocean  —  cognizance,  the 


King  wooing 
Too    deep    to    under-  ^th  ornate 


Stand, 

respect  and 

Bending  to  your  com-  courtly  admira 

tion. 
mand, 

Bringing    your    ships 

to  land 

Ten  thousand  years." 
King  Solomon, 
King  Solomon. 


120     KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  QUEEN  OF  SHEBA 


BOTH  LEADERS: 


King  Solomon  he  had  They  go  to  the 

,          ,         i       i      i  •    <•  footlights  with 

four  hundred  chief-  the  greatest 

tains.  possible  strut. 


CONGREGATION 


We    were    the    chief 
tains. 


BOTH  LEADERS:         You    shall    be    proud 

again, 
Dazzle      the      crowd 

again, 

Laughing  aloud 
For      ten      thousand 

years. 


BOTH  LEADERS 


The  leaders 
stand  with  arms 
proudly  folded. 

They  walk  back 
ward  haughtily, 
laughing  on  the 
last  lines. 


From  here  on 
the  whole  pro 
duction  to  be 
much  more 
solemn,  elevated, 
religious. 

King  Solomon  he  had    The  leaders  go 
„  ,          iii  forward  to  the 

four  hundred  shep-  footlights  carry. 


herds. 


ing  imaginary 
torches. 


CONGREGATION 


We    were    the 
herds. 


shep-  The  man  and 
woman  pause 
at  the  footlights. 


KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  QUEEN  OF  SHEBA     121 

BOTH  LEADERS  :         You  shall  have  torches  They  wander 

,    .   ,  over  the  stage  as 

bright,  though  inking 


Watching  the  folds  by  /°r/°s<          fj 

with  torches  held 
night,  high. 

Guarding    the    lambs 

aright, 
Ten  thousand  years. 


MEN'S  LEADER: 


King  Solomon  he 
asked  the  Queen  of 
Sheba, 

Bowing  most  politely  :   The  King 

ff-m,  kneels,  and 

Why  are  the  stars  so  indicates  the 

high  entire  sky  with 

one  long  slow 
There  in  the  velvet  sky,  gesture. 

Rolling  in  rivers  by, 
Ten  thousand  years  ?  " 


WOMEN'S  LEADER 


The  Queen   of  Sheba 
answered  like  a  lady, 

Bowing  most  politely  :   The  Queen 

«mi       »  •  f    kneels  opposite 

They  re    singing    of  the  King>  and 

your  kingdom  to  the  9ives  the  same 
gesture  as  she 

angels,  answers. 


122     KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  QUEEN  OF  SHEBA 

They  guide  your 
chariot  with  their 
lamps  and  candles, 

Therefore  they  burn 
so  far  — 

So  you  can  drive  your 
car 

Up  where  the  prophets 
are, 

Ten  thousand  years." 


MEN'S  LEADER: 


King  Solomon, 
King  Solomon. 


BOTH  LEADERS  : 


King  Solomon  he  kept 
the  Sabbath  holy. 

And  spoke  with 
tongues  in  prophet 
words  so  mighty 

We  stamped  and 
whirled  and  wept 
and  shouted :  — 


The  two  stand, 
commanding  the 
audience. 


The  man  and 
woman  stamp 
and  whirl  with 
great  noise  and 

solemnity. 


KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  QUEEN  OF  SHEBA     123 


CONGREGATION 
RISES  AND  JOINS 

THE   SONG  : 


.     .     .     .       "Glory." 
We  were  his  people. 


BOTH  LEADERS  :         You  shall  be  wild  and 

gay, 

Green  trees  shall  deck 

your  way, 

Sunday  be  every  day, 
Ten  thousand  years. 

King  Solomon, 
King  Solomon. 


On  these  two 
lines,  man  and 
woman  stamp 
and  whirl 
again,  gravely, 
magnificently. 

On  these  two 
lines  they  kneel, 
commanding  the 
audience. 

Now  they  rise 
and  bow  to  each 
other  and  the 
audience,  main 
taining  a  certain 
intention  of 
benediction. 


124     HOW  SAMSON  BORE  AWAY  THE  GATES 


HOW  SAMSON  BORE  AWAY  THE  GATES  OF 
GAZA 

(A  Negro  Sermon.) 

Once,  in  a  night  as  black  as  ink, 

She  drove  him  out  when  he  would  not  drink. 

Round  the  house  there  were  men  in  wait 

Asleep  in  rows  by  the  Gaza  gate. 

But  the  Holy  Spirit  was  in  this  man. 

Like  a  gentle  wind  he  crept  and  ran. 

("It  is  midnight,"  said  the  big  town  clock.) 

He  lifted  the  gates  up,  post  and  lock. 
The  hole  in  the  wall  was  high  and  wide 
When  he  bore  away  old  Gaza's  pride 
Into  the  deep  of  the  night :  — 
The  bold  Jack  Johnson  Israelite,  — 
Samson  — 
The  Judge, 
The  Nazarite. 

The  air  was  black,  like  the  smoke  of  a  dragon. 
Samson's  heart  was  as  big  as  a  wagon. 


HOW  SAMSON  BORE  AWAY  THE  GATES     125 

He  sang  like  a  shining  golden  fountain. 

He  sweated  up  to  the  top  of  the  mountain. 

He  threw  down  the  gates  with  a  noise  like  judgment. 

And  the  quails  all  ran  with  the  big  arousement. 

But  he  wept  —  "I  must  not  love  tough  queens, 

And  spend  on  them  my  hard  earned  means. 

I  told  that  girl  I  would  drink  no  more. 

Therefore  she  drove  me  from  her  door. 

Oh  sorrow ! 

Sorrow ! 

I  cannot  hide. 

Oh  Lord  look  down  from  your  chariot  side. 

You  made  me  Judge,  and  I  am  not  wise. 

I  am  weak  as  a  sheep  for  all  my  size." 

Let  Samson 
Be  coming 
Into  your  mind. 

The  moon  shone  out,  the  stars  were  gay. 
He  saw  the  foxes  run  and  play. 
He  rent  his  garments,  he  rolled  around 
In  deep  repentance  on  the  ground. 

Then  he  felt  a  honey  in  his  soul. 
Grace  abounding  made  him  whole. 


126     HOW  SAMSON  BORE  AWAY  THE  GATES 

Then  he  saw  the  Lord  in  a  chariot  blue. 
The  gorgeous  stallions  whinnied  and  flew. 
The  iron  wheels  hummed  an  old  hymn-tune 
And  crunched  in  thunder  over  the  moon. 
And  Samson  shouted  to  the  sky  : 
"My  Lord,  my  Lord  is  riding  high." 

Like  a  steed,  he  pawed  the  gates  with. his  hoof. 

He  rattled  the  gates  like  rocks  on  the  roof, 

And  danced  in  the  night 

On  the  mountain-top, 

Danced  in  the  deep  of  the  night : 

The  Judge,  the  holy  Nazarite, 

Whom  ropes  and  chains  could  never  bind. 

Let  Samson 
Be  coming 
Into  your  mind. 

Whirling  his  arms,  like  a  top  he  sped. 
His  long  black  hair  flew  round  his  head 
Like  an  outstretched  net  of  silky  cord, 
Like  a  wheel  of  the  chariot  of  the  Lord. 

Let  Samson 
Be  coming 
Into  your  mind. 


HOW  SAMSON  BORE  AWAY  THE  GATES     127 

Samson  saw  the  sun  anew. 

He  left  the  gates  in  the  grass  and  dew. 

He  went  to  a  county-seat  a-nigh. 

Found  a  harlot  proud  and  high  : 

Philistine  that  no  man  could  tame  — 

Delilah  was  her  lady-name. 

Oh  sorrow, 

Sorrow, 

She  was  too  wise. 

She  cut  off  his  hair, 

She  put  out  his  eyes. 

Let  Samson 
Be  coming 
Into  your  mind. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


T 


HE  following  pages  contain  advertisements  of  Mac- 
millan  books  by  the  same  author. 


BY  THE   SAME   AUTHOR 

A  Handy  Guide  for  Beggars 

New  Edition.     Cloth,  i2mo,  $1.25 

"  The  Handy  Guide  for  Beggars  "  is  an  introduction 
to  all  Vachel  Lindsay's  work.  It  gives  his  first  adven 
tures  afoot.  He  walked  through  Florida,  Georgia,  North 
Carolina,  Tennesee,  and  Kentucky,  in  the  spring  of  1906. 
He  walked  through  New  Jersey,  Pennsylvania,  and  on 
to  Hiram,  Ohio,  in  the  spring  of  1908.  He  carried  on 
these  trips  his  poems  :  "  The  Tree  of  Laughing  Bells," 
"  The  Heroes  of  Time,"  etc.  He  recited  them  in  ex 
change  for  food  and  lodging.  He  left  copies  for  those 
who  appeared  interested.  The  book  is  a  record  of 
these  journeys,  and  of  many  pleasing  discoveries  about 
American  Democracy. 

This  book  serves  to  introduce  the  next,  "Adventures 
While  Preaching  the  Gospel  of  Beauty."  In  the  spring 
and  summer  of  1912,  Mr.  Lindsay  walked  from  Spring 
field,  Illinois,  west  to  Colorado,  and  into  New  Mexico. 
He  was  much  more  experienced  in  the  road.  He  carried 
'•  Rhymes  to  Be  Traded  for  Bread,"  "  The  Village  Im 
provement  Parade,"  etc.  As  is  indicated  in  the  title,  he 
wrestled  with  a  theory  of  American  aesthetics.  "  Christ 
mas,  1915,"  the  third  book  in  the  series,  appeared,  apply 
ing  the  "  Gospel  of  Beauty  to  the  Photoplay."  The  ideas 
of  Art  and  Democracy  that  develop  in  the  first  two  books 
are  used  as  the  basic  principles  in  "  The  Art  of  the 
Moving  Picture."  Those  who  desire  a  close  view  of 
the  Lindsay  idea  will  do  well  to  read  the  three  works  in 
the  order  named.  Further  particulars  in  the  pages 
following. 


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The  Congo  and  Other  Poems 

With  a  preface  by  HARRIET  MONROE,  Editor  of  the  Poetry  Magazine. 

Cloth,  121110,  $1.25  ;  leather,  $1.60 

In  the  readings  which  Vachel  Lindsay  has  given  for 
colleges,  universities,  etc.,  throughout  the  country,  he 
has  won  the  approbation  of  the  critics  and  of  his  au 
diences  in  general  for  the  new  verse-form  which  he  is 
employing,  as  well  as  the  manner  of  his  chanting  and 
singing,  which  is  peculiarly  his  own.  He  carries  in 
memory  all  the  poems  in  his  books,  and  recites  the  pro 
gram  made  out  for  him  ;  the  wonderful  effect  of  sound 
produced  by  his  lines,  their  relation  to  the  idea  which 
the  author  seeks  to  convey,  and  their  marvelous  lyrical 
quality  are  quite  beyond  the  ordinary,  and  suggest  new 
possibilities  and  new  meanings  in  poetry.  It  is  his 
main  object  to  give  his  already  established  friends  a 
deeper  sense  of  the  musical  intention  of  his  pieces. 

The  book  contains  the  much  discussed  "War  Poem," 
"  Abraham  Lincoln  Walks  at  Midnight "  ;  it  contains 
among  its  familiar  pieces :  "  The  Santa  Fe  Trail," 
"The  Firemen's  Ball,"  "The  Dirge  for  a  Righteous 
Kitten,"  "The  Griffin's  Egg,"  "The  Spice  Tree," 
"  Blanche  Sweet,"  "  Mary  Pickford,"  "The  Soul  of  the 
City,"  etc. 

Mr.  Lindsay  received  the  Levinson  Prize  for  the  best  poem 
contributed  to  Poetry,  a  magazine  of  verse,  (Chicago)  for  1915. 

"We  do  not  know  a  young  man  of  any  more  promise  than  Mr. 
Vachel  Lindsay  for  the  task  which  he  seems  to  have  set  himself."  — 
The  Dial. 

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VERSE  BY  THE   SAME  AUTHOR 

General     William     Booth    Enters     Into 
Heaven  and  Other  Poems 

Price,  $f.2j  ;  leather,  $1.60 

This  book  contains  among  other  verses  :  "  On  Read 
ing  Omar  Khayyam  during  an  Anti-Saloon  Campaign 
in  Illinois  "  ;  "  The  Wizard  Wind  "  ;  "  The  Eagle  For 
gotten,"  a  Memorial  to  John  P.  Altgeld  ;  "  The  Knight 
in  Disguise,"  a  Memorial  to  O.  Henry ;  "  The  Rose 
and  the  Lotus  "  ;  "  Michaelangelo  "  ;  "  Titian  "  ;  "  What 
the  Hyena  Said  "  ;  "  W7hat  Grandpa  Mouse  Said  "  ; 
"  A  Net  to  Snare  the  Moonlight  "  ;  "  Springfield  Magi 
cal  "  ;  "  The  Proud  Farmer  "  ;  "  The  Illinois  Village  "  ; 
"  The  Building  of  Springfield." 


COMMENTS  ON  THE  TITLE   POEM: 

"This  poem,  at  once  so  glorious,  so  touching  and  poignant  in 
its  conception  and  expression.  ...  is  perhaps  the  most  remark 
able  poem  of  a  decade  —  one  that  defies  imitation."  —  Review  of 
J\'eviews. 

"  A  sweeping  and  penetrating  vision  that  works  with  a  naive 
charm.  .  .  .  No  American  poet  of  to-day  is  more  a  people's 
poet."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"One  could  hardly  overpraise  'General  Booth.'" — New  York 
Times. 

"  Something  new  in  verse,  spontaneous,  passionate,  unmindful 
of  conventions  in  form  and  theme."—  The  Living  Age. 


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PROSE  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

Adventures  While  Preaching  the  Gospel 
of  Beauty 

Price,  $f.oo 

This  is  a  series  of  happenings  afoot  while  reciting  at 
back-doors  in  the  west,  and  includes  some  experiences 
while  harvesting  in  Kansas.  It  includes  several  proc 
lamations  which  apply  the  Gospel  of  Beauty  to  agri 
cultural  conditions.  There  are,  among  other  rhymed 
interludes:  "The  Shield  of  Faith,"  "The  Flute  of  the 
Lonely,"  "  The  Rose  of  Midnight,"  "  Kansas,"  "  The 
Kallyope  Yell." 

SOMETHING   TO   READ 

Vachel  Lindsay  took  a  walk  from  his  home  in  Springfield,  111., 
over  the  prairies  to  New  Mexico.  He  was  in  Kansas  in  wheat- 
harvest  time  and  he  worked  as  a  farmhand,  and  he  tells  all  about 
that.  He  tells  about  his  walks  and  the  people  he  met  in  a  little 
book,  "Adventures  while  Preaching  the  Gospel  of  Beauty."  For 
the  conditions  of  his  tramps  were  that  he  should  keep  away  from 
cities,  money,  baggage,  and  pay  his  way  by  reciting  his  own  poems. 
And  he  did  it.  People  liked  his  pieces,  and  tramp  farmhands  with 
rough  necks  and  rougher  hands  left  off  singing  smutty  limericks 
and  took  to  "  Atlanta  in  Calydon  "  apparently  because  they  pre 
ferred  it.  Of  motor  cars,  which  gave  him  a  lift,  he  says :  "  I  still 
maintain  that  the  auto  is  a  carnal  institution,  to  be  shunned  by  the 
truly  spiritual,  but  there  are  times  when  I,  for  one,  get  tired  of 
being  spiritual."  His  story  of  the  "  Five  Little  Children  Eating 
Mush  "  (that  was  one  night  in  Colorado,  and  he  recited  to  them 
while  they  ate  supper)  has  more  beauty  and  tenderness  and  jolly 
tears  than  all  the  expensive  sob  stuff  theatrical  managers  ever 
dreamed  of.  Mr.  Lindsay  doesn't  need  to  write  verse  to  be  a  poet. 
His  prose  is  poetry  —  poetry  straight  from  the  soil,  of  America  that 
is,  and  of  a  nobler  America  that  is  to  be.  You  cannot  afford  — 
both  for  your  entertainment  and  for  the  real  idea  that  this  young 
man  has  (of  which  we  have  said  nothing)  —  to  miss  this  book.  — 
Editorial  from  Collier'1  s  Weekly. 


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PROSE  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

The  Art  of  the  Moving  Picture 

Price, 

An  effort  to  apply  the  Gospel  of  Beauty  to  a  new  art. 
The  first  section  has  an  outline  which  is  proposed  as  a 
basis  for  photoplay  criticism  in  America ;  chapters  on  : 
"  The  Photoplay  of  Action,"  "  The  Intimate  Photoplay," 
"The  Picture  of  Fairy  Splendor,"  "The  Picture  of 
Crowd  Splendor,"  "The  Picture  of  Patriotic  Splendor," 
"The  Picture  of  Religious  Splendor,"  "  Sculpture  in 
Motion,"  "Painting  in  Motion,"  "Furniture,"  "Trap 
pings  and  Inventions  in  Motion,"  "Architecture  in 
Motion,"  "Thirty  Differences  between  the  Photoplays 
and  the  Stage,"  "  Hieroglyphics."  The  second  section 
is  avowedly  more  discursive,  being  more  personal  specu 
lations  and  afterthoughts,  not  brought  forward  so  dog 
matically  ;  chapters  on  :  "  The  Orchestra  Conversation 
and  the  Censorship,"  "  The  Substitute  for  the  Saloon," 
"  California  and  America,"  "  Progress  and  Endow 
ment,"  "  Architects  as  Crusaders,"  "  On  Coming  Forth 
by  Day,"  "  The  Prophet  Wizard,"  "  The  Acceptable 
Year  of  the  Lord." 

FOR  LATE  REVIEWS  OF  MR.  LINDSAY  AND  HIS 
CONTEMPORARIES  READ: 

The  New  Republic  :  Articles  by  Randolph  S.  Bourne,  December 
5,  1914,  on  the  "Adventures  while  Preaching";  and  Francis 
Hackett,  December  25,  1915,  on  "The  Art  of  the  Moving  Picture." 

The  Dial :  Unsigned  article  by  Lucien  Carey,  October  16,  1914, 
on  "  The  Congo,"  etc. 

The  Yale  Review :  Article  by  II.  M.  Luquiens,  July,  1916,  on 
"  The  Art  of  the  Moving  Picture." 

GENERAL  ARTICLES  ON  THE  POETRY  SITUATION 

The  Century  Magazine:  "America's  Golden  Age  in  Poetry," 
March,  1916. 

Harper's  Afonthly  Magazine  :  "  The  Easy  Chair,"  William  Dean 
Howells,  September,  1915. 

The  Craftsman:  "Has  America  a  National  Poetry?"  Amy 
Lowell,  July,  1916. 

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uc  SOUTHERN  REG:  NALLB  ARY  FACILITY 


A     000706144     3 


